


The Old Gods and the New

by OnlyInTheDark



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (But it’s brief.), (sorry not sorry), A LOT of sighing, Actual nightmares, Angst, Anonymous Sex, BAMF Kira, BAMF Lydia, BAMF Stiles, Be-spelled Hale Pack, Bondage, Buffy references, But it’s a literary stream of consciousness thing, But it’s well-earned bashing, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Cold Fire, D/s, Dark and Darker, Depression, Emotional neglect, F/M, Full-fox Kira, Full-shift Werewolves, Horror, Hurt Stiles, Insecure Stiles, It’s leaning toward a Sterek ending, Kinks, Kira is a like a real live-action anime character, M/M, Mage!Stiles, Magic!Stiles, Most of the pack are bad friends, Multi, Multiple Pov, Mystery, Noshiko is a wind kitsune, Not Evil!Allison, Occasional Pranks, Panic Attacks, Possession by Inky!evil (not xfiles), Pranks, Psudo-prostitution, Sarcasm, Scott McCall Bashing, Scott McCall has issues, Scott is a Bad Friend, Self harm (of a sort), Semi-Public Sex, Sheriff should arrest himself — really, Stiles gets paid for BJs but never asks for money?, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Stiles is in a dark place, Stiles-centric, Succubus, Temporary Character Death, Threesomes, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Very brief ghostiness, Violence, Watersport moment after one BJ, Who’s also a queen, alpha pack, because his crush isn’t really a priority, but it might seem like it, djinn, eyebrow talking, hellhound, he’s kinda oblivious about his pining though, italics like WHOA, magic!danny, not evil!Peter, numerous plot holes, pining!Stiles, run-on sentences like whoa, sex as self harm, sheriff is a bad parent, waking nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-05-02 14:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 143,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14547210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyInTheDark/pseuds/OnlyInTheDark
Summary: Secrets, lies, neglect, abuse, nightmares, abandonment, and an evil that evolves are justsomeof the things that Stiles can really say made up his summer vacation.And Stiles has never been so alone.  It takes a while to give up completely, to hit rock bottom, to wake up bloody and broken and missing anentire night’s worth of memory,and everything changes.Now Stiles’ once latent magic is evolving too, and not everyone appreciates the change. Some fear it, some covet it, and some rally to it.  Stiles is both wary and grateful for the new people he’s let into his life, and can’t deny how much difference it makes to have someone at his back when they now have everything to lose.********...yeah, it’s a terrible summary, actually.  It’s still a WIP (I am only just now coming out of hibernation) and as of 3.28.19 done some plot-hole-filling / continuity errors / scene plushing editing stuffs.  And by the gods, (old and new) I’ll have a new chapter or two posted soon.





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up on Stephen King, Jim Butcher and Nancy Drew. (And more recently, Peter Merideth.) This is all their fault. : P
> 
> But J.K. Rowling might just be one of Stiles’ inspirations, and I’m pretty sure he’s also read just about everything I have. ; )
> 
> Highly un-beta’d

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a while.

*****

She whimpers, eyes clenched tight with pain as she drops to the rocky forest floor, knees bruising. Something’s wrong - so _very_ wrong because it’s not supposed to hurt like this, not ever. She crawls forward, drawn by the inexplicable pull that’s left her feeling like a fish on a fishing line, yanking away to escape only to be dragged in closer again and again.

She doesn’t fight it that hard; _can’t_  when everything about it appeals - the scent on the air, the aftertaste on her tongue, it’s dark energy caresses and soothes and beckons. She just needs to get a little further - a little further and she can  _finally_ rest.

She’s deep in the forest now, with pine needles and dirt and all the things that crawl in the night. Not far now. She can make it. And when she does?  When she finds the one who’s doing this?   _She’ll make them pay_.

***********

The freaky-ass dreams Stiles never really remembers later (greasy-dark-hunting) get noticibly worse not long after the Kanima gives way to Jackass the Douche-wolf who is almost gleefully accepted into the pack like everyone’s long lost brother and he accepts them, in turn.

Everyone but Stiles, that is.

Because Jackson, werewolf or otherwise, is still _Jackson_. But he’s less abusive to Stiles when Lydia is around now, at least. Sadly, he’s nearly his usual raging douchiness when it’s anyone else _except_ Lydia, but still: much less abusive on average. It’s kind of a win?

Stiles has done close to ten hours of research on the pack dynamics of wolves (since they seem to cross frequently with werewolf behavior) and concludes it’s a lone-wolf-who’s-suddenly pack dominance display thing.  So Stiles shrugs it off because, again, Jackson is less of a dick overall.

Also? _Everyone_ in the pack brings something to the table, and Stiles brings his unparalleled google-fu and logical sensibilities. Lydia does too, obviously (crazy smart goddess that she is), but she’s mostly researching banshees these days since Peter the Posthumous had shown back up, given her an (almost too good to be true?) sincere and well-spoken apology and clued her in to her own ‘gifts’ of heritage.

It’s another rift mended in the pack and the bonds grow stronger.  Besides, all Jackson brings is his wolfiness and an ego the size of Nevada.

But, Stiles can deal with Jackson, for now; he’s dealt with worse.

Derek seems both pleased to have his not-as-homicidal uncle back and incredibly wary because it’s still Derek and for him the other shoe (also the size of Nevada) will surely be dropping any day now. The longer it _doesn’t_ drop, the more confident he becomes, finally beginning to grow into the roll of alpha in a way he hopes would’ve made his mother proud.

The shifter betas all master their control, even Jackson after a long coaching session from Erica, of all people. Those two soon formed an odd ‘bro-ship’ that makes everyone scratch their heads but can’t really gripe about.

Allison, furious with the inevitable conclusion that Gerard had twisted her emotional and mental state into a pretzle to turn her into his latest weapon tracks him down a week after that traumatizingly insane night of Jackson’s not-death, cuts off Gerard’s head with his own sword and brings it to Erica and Boyd in a box along with an apology. (Stiles, at least, feels better - even if only he, Boyd, and Erica knows why.)

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” Allison tells them, “because I’ve done nothing to earn it yet, so all I can say is that he, at least, is one less nightmare you’ll ever need to worry about again.”

Then there’s a long oddly silent conversation between the three that’s spoken entirely with eyes, chin lifts, eyebrow twitches, pursed lips, shrugs, and eventually, a three-way hug. It’s odd to watch, but Stiles finds himself glad. Allison, under all the crazy, is still a good person.

Derek lifts a (shocking) suspicious Hale eyebrow when she turns to him next with a manilla folder and pulls out a sheaf of papers with fancy writing that looks older than all of the pack combined.

“I found this in Gerard’s lock box. Would it still be valid?” Derek and Peter read the title, Derek’s brows twitching higher with every line.

“Great Great Grandpa Hale. Good wolf, he was.” Peter remarks.

“So this is real?” Derek asks, side-eyeing his uncle.

“There was a copy in your mother’s study, I believe.” Peter turns to Allison, curious. “If there were truly such a thing as supernatural legality, yes. It would still hold. You’re willing to keep the treaty?”

Allison nods decisively. “I am. And more, I think we can improve on it.”

Allison and her army of Argents are excellent allies to have in their corner and she’s soon accepted as pack as if she’d never been anything else. She and Scott dial their courtship back to the flirty friend stage that, to no one’s surprise, soon includes  _Isaac_. Now their circle of friends is complete and the pack celebrate their newfound bond on the first full moon of summer break, one week and three days after the kanima.

No one really notices that Stiles, still healing from a deep gash in his side and three cracked ribs (curtesy of Gerard and his goons), left early-on to take his dad some dinner at the station (a hopeful attempt to just hang with his dad a little) and never returned afterward.  He might have, though, if Jackson hadn’t insinuated earlier that all the non-wolves were leaving anyway so the werewolves could run with the moon. Stiles doesn’t even know he’s missed a party until three days later.

No one comments on his absence.

************

“Still not ready to give up those names?” The Sherriff asks shortly from the breakfast table while he finishes his coffee and ties his work shoes. Stiles cringes a little. Having a dad who (sort of) detects lies for a living is the worst.

“I told you I don’t —“

“Remember their faces or know their names. _Right_.” The coffee cup thumps down in a finally-done-with-your-bullshit-sounding way, and Stiles flinches before he risks peeking up at his dad.

And yup, his dad has the same stilted, disappointed expression he’s worn since the morning after kanima night.  It’s been all downhill, all the time since his dad had caught sight of his delinquent son in the daylight when the bruising looked even _worse_. But Stiles knows what his dad sees when he looks at him now: that Stiles is still just Stiles — same bullshit excuses, same lying liar who lies, same monumental disappointment.

“‘M sorry dad,” he mutters unhappily to the soggy eggos on his plate.

Finished with his laces, the Sheriff nods stiffly, lips tight. “I’m pulling a double tonight,” he announces on his way to the door,   “Don’t wait up.”

But it’s been a week since then and Stiles has only seen his dad twice the whole time. It’s now that Stiles realizes his dad, for the first time ever, isn’t going to let this one slide. Not easily, at any rate. Maybe because Stiles had been injured, even if the sheriff didn’t realize the actual extent.

To make _certain_  his dad didn’t know (and never would), Stiles had hit the clinic in Beacon Trails, nearly two towns over, to get the deep cut in his side stitched and have his cracked ribs taped. Stiles doesn’t doubt he’d be under summer-long house arrest if his dad had known it didn’t stop with a scraped up cheek and a busted lip.

His dad also doesn’t know that he only really catches onto a fraction of the lies his son weaves into his daily routine. But... he’s beginning to suspect, and they both know it.

Stiles would gleefully swallow the hurt and the guilt and all the repercussions if it keeps his dad safe, but now Stiles can’t tell him if he wants to - and he _does_ want to, now, because the rift between father and son that had started ‘crack in the sidewalk’-sized is now gully-sized and headed for canyon-sized.

He _hates_ the lies.  He wants his dad brought into the fold.

So Stiles asks Derek about it (unfortunately on one of Derek’s bad mood days) and gets himself and his still-healing ribs pinned to the wall for suggesting that having a lawman in the know could actually _help_  the pack.

“That isn’t your call,” Derek snarls in his face, eyes furiously red while the betas look on, wordless. Even Scott has his lips pursed shut, bowing to Derek’s authority. Jackson, arms crossed and smirking behind the others, just grins.

Peter narrows his eyes at him until Jackson reluctantly drops his gaze and bares his neck, fractionally. Whatever, at least Jackson isn’t the whiny bitch at the bottom of the pack’s totem pole. Derek had just all but proven that honor goes to the spaz.

Stiles gasps silently past the pain of his still-healing ribs but plows on. “It’s not worth informing the one person on the force who could actually help with the human-legal end of things? He could’ve helped with the kanima, if he’d just known. He _definately_ could’ve helped with Gerard.”

“ _Not_.” Derek reiterates with another bruising shove, “ _your_ ,” and another shove that had Stiles fighting tiny spots in his vision, “ _call_.” The final shove has Stiles sliding down the wall when Derek lets go, fighting off both the faintness and the accompanying nausea while hoping against hope none of the wolves will pick up on the pain.

“It could easily go the other way, and while it might keep your dad safer, it would be throwing the rest of us under the bus. Are you seriously _that_ selfish?” Derek snarls.

No one defends Stiles today, though to get Stiles away from Derek’s ire, Scott shuffles him out of the newly furnished loft and drives him back home.

“We all had a rough night last night,” Scott explains.

“We?”

“Well, I mean, the wolves, anyhow.” Scott shrugs, looking pained. “Yesterday was the anniversary of the fire. It’s like the pack bonds let us all feel what he’s feeling, kinda. So, y’know... rough night.”

“Ah,” Stiles says stupidly, nodding. We’re they all meeting up last night? He hadn’t thought so. He totally would have brought comfort cocoa.

Scott parks the Jeep in it’s usual spot in the Stilinski driveway and frowns at Stiles. “You okay man? You look pretty beat. Not sleeping?”

Stiles’ heart warms that Scott has even noticed, what with Stiles not physically standing between Scott and Allison. Or Scott and Isaac, for that matter.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need to catch up on some z’s, I guess.” Sleeping with cracked and bruised ribs means waking up every time he either takes a deep breath or rolls over. So, ya’know, frequently.  Although, those painful jolts have interrupted a few nausea-inducing, unsettling, unremembered nightmares. Still, it could be worse. “Wanna come in for some Halo time?”

“Can’t, dude. Date night,” Scott grins, tossing Stiles his keys with an eager blush. “Ally and I... and Isaac, actually.”

Stiles wolf-whistles with a smile he can’t really feel; he seriously can’t remember the last time Scott had actually deliberately made time for his best-est bud. “I’m happy for you,” he says anyway, because it’s true, mostly. Stiles just wishes it didn’t leave him dangling in the wind alone so often.

But hey, no worries! He can be patient because he’s  _awesome_ that way.

“Thanks man,” Scott grins. “I’ll call ya, though? Gotta go!” And with an excited, showy flip he disappears at a run off down the street.

Stiles sighs and trudges inside. The post-it on the wall by the stairs is the first thing he sees.

‘Staying late at the station, don’t wait up. Grocery money’s in the house account and chores still need doing. — Dad’

Stiles slumps.  He really would sigh the full heavy-hearted sigh of the downtrodden teen if it didn’t make his ribs ache even more than they already do. He settles for a mopey wheeze and departs for the grocery store.

*******

Stiles, nearly queasy with exhaustion, had only _just_  drifted off, less than a week later, when his phone beeps. Fuuuuuuck, and he’d been _soooo_ close to his desperately needed z’s. He huffs at the ceiling when it beeps again before he snatches it up to glare at the texts.

SourWolf: You still have the revised bestiary?

SourWolf: Lydia says you do. What drains a person of most of their body mass without leaving a mark? Smells like jasmine.

Stiles would be intrigued if he wasn’t so fucking tired. He’s only _scanning_ the bestiary into digital form, but Lydia was the one who’d written the revised version. Shouldn’t she know? He grumps his way to his desk and laptop, texting back.

BtMn: I’ll see what I can find.

He texts again while his laptop boots up.

BtMn: What did Lydia say? She wrote it, after all.

Four hours later and Stiles still hasn’t gotten a reply, but he’s fairly certain it’s some kind of djinn. Since his texts have all gone unanswered, he calls instead.

He maybe should’ve expected the growling voice he receives.  “It’s three in the fucking morning. WHAT?”

Stiles would usually cower in the face of that voice, even over the phone, but he’s exhausted and cranky and actually manages a decent growl in return.

“If you don’t want calls in the middle of the fucking night, asshat, don’t text me for research in the middle of the fucking night.” Derek growls louder but says nothing else.

Stiles huffs in exasperation. “Good luck with the djinn, dude. Lydia should know how to kill it.” He hangs up, turns his phone off completely for good measure, and is thankfully asleep seconds after his head hits his pillow.

He manages three full hours of fitful dreams laden with kanima hisses and greasy-slick eyes and Scott’s golden wolf eyes narrowed in anger and the confusing mix of wolfsbane punch hallucinations before a thump jolts him awake.  He chokes down the pained cry of maybe another ripped stitch while the wall by his door thumps again.

Stiles smells the whisky almost before he even opens his door but manages to catch his dad before he tips completely to the hallway floor, muttering angrily under his breath. He’s still in uniform and - _jesus_ \- still _armed_  and Stiles manfully resists the urge to cry while he helps him down the hall to his own bed, unlatching his utility belt and gun on the way.

The Sherriff’s head hits the mattress with a soft snore. Stiles watches him, for just a minute, then sets aside the belt and gun, gets his dad’s shoes off and covers him with his mother’s quilt before retreating back to his own bed. He stares up at the ceiling until the sun is shining brightly through the blinds.

The Beacon County Sheriff’s Department shift schedule posted on the fridge says it’s his dad’s day off, which is good, considering the mostly empty whisky bottle at the bottom of the stairs. Stiles puts it on the sideboard and febreezes the scent of alcohol away before retreating to his room, sans breakfast. Stress and food do _not_  mix well.

His phone spits out a handful of missed call and text alerts when it’s finally back on, reminding him of the other reasons he has to be stressed.

Two missed calls from Derek, no messages. One missed call from Peter, voicemail included, reminding him that pissing off a grumpy alpha in the dead of night is in _no one’s_ best interest, but agrees it probably is a djinn.

Three missed texts.

A pack-wide group text from Goddess: I am officially off the clock past 8 pm, call Stiles if needed.

Golly. Thanks a lot Lyds.

GreatScotty: Last sec brfast plans, meet pack at Jerry’s diner @ 8 if you want.

It’s close to 10am now, somehow, and Stiles droops a little. When the hell had they made plans for that early? They’re teenagers on summer break. _No one_ gets up before 9 a.m. It’s practically a law.

GreatScotty: Derek says just wolf training today, we can maybe hang out tomorrow?

Stiles sighs, but replies, because he’s a good person.

BtMn: Sure man, call/txt tonight for plans?

There is, predictably, no call or text that night or the next.

Stiles has a long and silent two days following that due to absolutely _no one_ replying to his calls or texts.  Not even his dad, though he, at least, leaves notes.  Sometimes.

Stiles distracts himself from that somewhat by scanning in the last of the revised bestiary and copying it to a few flash drives so that others can be as efficiently and sufficiently terrorized by the contents as he and Lydia. Share the love, right?

*******

When Stiles does finally get a message, its another pack-wide call to arms for what Stiles thinks could be the djinn, but sounds more like a vampire. He hauls ass to the loft laden with books and laptop. Peter greets him at the lift and courteously takes the stack of books with a slight frown.

“You look terrible,” he says bluntly with a twitching nose and frowns more. “And you’re in pain.”

“No more than usual,” Stiles mutters when the lift starts rising, shuffling uncomfortably. He hadn’t meant to say that. “Everyone’s clumsier when they’re tired,” he says instead, because its true. “And the sniffing thing is weird, so please stop.” Maybe its the please, or maybe Stiles really does look like the most recent addition to the walking dead but Peter relents without another word and rolls the heavy loft door aside.

Two hours later Stiles is absolutely certain its a djinn. Lydia’s nearly as certain its not (or just debating for the sake of debating). No one else is brave enough to take sides. Not out loud, anyway.

“Seriously, I’m not saying it’s absolutely _not_ a vampire, but so far everything I’ve found on them says they prefer clean healthy blood. Whether or not they’re soulless or have enough of a conscience to willingly go after someone who’s already ailing is sort of moot if they can’t control themselves enough not to leave the body looking like it’s been beaten to death. Unless it’s a brand new vamp, it’s probably neither that desperate or that stupid.”

“And if it _is_ a brand new vampire?” Lydia fires back without pause. “As the little holes in her neck suggest?”

“Then it’s a brand new vamp with amazing control, a conscience, and can somehow either disappear at will or is unaffected by daylight, since this happened in the day.” Stiles stills, then turns to Scott. “What time did your mom say this happened again?”

Scott jumps a little guiltily from staring adoringly at his other 2/3s holding hands next to him.

“Uhh... I took her lunch at 2pm and it’d just happened. Hospice ward, which isn’t really her area. So, 1:30 or so?” Scott puts his thinking face on. “Does any of Hollywood have it right? Can they survive in the daylight? I mean, I took a good sniff around the entire ward but mostly it just smelled like antiseptics and chemicals and ‘sick’ underneath all that. But, wait, what did you mean about control?”

Lydia opens her mouth to speak but Stiles, still on a roll, beats her to it. “New vamps are voracious- they’re always hungry and willing to go after just about anything, but... they need clean, healthy blood. It’s the blood that sustains them with nutrients and vitamins and all that. If this is a new vamp attack, it had to go through an entire hospital of healthy nurses, orderlies, doctors, administrators, custodians and probably hospital visitors to even _get_ to the hospice ward. If it was hiding out on one of the basement levels, it’d have gone for the bloodbank by the morgue because for whatever freaky reason, it always smells like blood down there, even to a human nose,” he finishes, wrinkling his own at the memory.

“It really, really does,” Scott agrees with a similar expression.

“When were you two ever in the morgue?” Derek asks, frowning at the two of them from his ‘overlord’, cross-armed stance by the windows.

Stiles and Scott give each other wide, guilty eyes before Stiles spits out “We spent a lot of time at the hospital as kids. I doubt there’s any part of that building we haven’t seen.” Scott nods obediently.

“Yep. Seen it all, at some point.” There’s a weighted pause where neither he or Scott says anything about sniffing half a body until Stiles fires up again to move the conversation along.

“So, that’s my argument against vamps. Again, not assured, because there are a half dozen different types.”

“You said there’s a half dozen types of djinn, too. How do we know which one?” Lydia shoots back, more inquisitive than argumentative. Apparently Stiles won that match. (Mental fist pump!)

“Not sure yet, barring random floral scents and vague sets of possible symptoms, maybe, but they mostly all die the same way from what I read, so it might not matter? What happened with the last one? Are we sure this isn’t the same one?” He asks the room at large.

“What, _now_ you care?” Derek gripes, brows furrowed grumpily.

“Huh? What?” Stiles asks, baffled.

“We met the next morning to talk about it. You never showed,” Derek grouses.

“Uhh, maybe because no one told me until nearly _after_ the fact?” Stiles fires back, “and then repeatedly ignored my calls for two days?” Half the people in the room squirm a little, looking a tad guilty. _Including_  Derek.

“Um,” Scott starts, cringing. “I forgot until we were on our way there? And your phone was off, which you never do unless you’re borderline sick from lack of sleep. Which you were, and everyone could tell.”

“Which Scott told us. You obviously needed a break. We were letting you have a break.” Derek’s voice is sure and calm, even if his shoulders do look a little guilty-hunched.

Stiles sighs shortly, frustrated. “Right. So, last djinn? Dead? Alive? MIA?”

“Not a trace of it since,” Scott says, looking less guilty. “Unless there has been?” He asks Derek, who shakes his head.

“Well, what happened with the first victim?”

This time, Lydia takes the lead. “Female, 31, cleaning lady at an office building found dead by her car the morning after. By all accounts she just dropped dead at random while unlocking her car, if you discount the loss of overall body mass. Thinner hair, weak nails and teeth, the whole works. Like she’s suddenly lost six months to a concentration camp, was returned and died on the spot.” Lydia looks more than a little disturbed by it. They all do. There’d probably been pictures. “Ms. McCall called when they first wheeled her in and snuck Scott in to investigate.” Scott looks a little green at the reminder, but helpfully picks up the story.

“Took a sample of that scent with me - Peter said jasmine? She reeked of it, seriously. Under that scent was something else, like —“ Scott looks frustrated by the lack of adequate words.

“Not wolf,” Peter adds. “Not kanima or wendigo or vampire, but something supernatural. Might be a djinn,” he shrugs, “but I’ve never encountered one, that I know of, so...”

Stiles nods, flipping through the medical report of Ms. Markins and frowns a little.

“First victim, Ms. Markins was a cleaning lady,” he mutters. “What else did she do?”

“Charity,” Lydia provides, flipping through entries of a beastiary far older than the Argents.

“She did charity work?”

“That too. Her name was Charity Markins. She volunteered at the hospital... oh.”

“Volunteered?” Stiles repeats, but thinks he already knows.

“In both the children’s ward and hospice ward.”

“Ohhhhhh. I really hope this is a djinn with a conscience,” Stiles has the terrible feeling it might not be.

“Then we’ll investigate both wards, and give the whole hospital a once over, just to be sure,” Alpha Derek’s back up and driving, looking broody, (as usual) but serious and commanding. It’s a good look on him, Stiles thinks, and that thought cuts short when his name comes up.

“-iles and Scott, you scope out the hospice ward again-“

“No.” The room freezes again, eyes swiveling between Derek and Stiles. “I can’t do the hospice ward,” Stiles says quietly, not taking his eyes off Scott. Scott’s eyes widen with surprise then soften with understanding and then he nods. “I’ll do the children’s ward though. Those kids are badass and awesome to hang out with.”

Everyone in the room is looking at him strangely but he drops his eyes to the medical report in his lap and flips a page. From the corner of his eye he sees Scott mouth a word (probably _Mom_ ) in Derek’s direction that apparently everyone sees and the room relaxes once more.

“Boyd and I will take hospice, then.  Jackson, Allison, and Peter you get the lowest levels; morgue, labs, blood bank - find the body if it’s there and Peter, find a scent if there is one. Erica, you and Lydia scope the outside and come in to search if you need to.” He’s mostly talking to Lydia who nods, looking relieved.

“I’ll just stay outside, unless I feel —“ she waggles a hand toward herself in an odd gesture that seems to mean either ‘the need to scream like a banshee’ or ‘will soon need to scream like a banshee’.

Derek nods, shifting eyes over his pack. “Let’s go.”

***********

They arrive early and park a block away near the crappy diner that’s open all night, just in case anyone wonders why they’re all out there. Melissa keeps them waiting at a mostly forgotten back door and lets them in just after 9, when the late staff of the administration department and half the hospital staff close up and quit for the day. The teams break away and soon Stiles and Scott are grinning back at a room full of kids delighted to have visitors after-hours and begin chanting for a bedtime story.

“I’ll enchant them with my ridiculous story voices, you go sniff around.” Stiles instructs. Scott huffs but slips back out, cautious, and lets his bud entertain his inner 2nd grader.

While Stiles dramatically reinacts Harry Potter meeting Mr. Olivander on Diagon Alley, Scott actually _does_ find a faint trace of jasmine lingering near the employee lounge, but detects no scent of ‘other’, recent or not.

The nurses on shift catch him, but give both he and Stiles a pass since they know Melissa well enough to give ‘her boys’ a chance to cheer up sickly kids. Stiles vows to the tiny Titans to come back soon and the kids all cheer sleepily, leaving him grinning like a goof until he and Scott make their way back down the stairwell where Scott freezes, eyes briefly going wolf yellow and frowning at Stiles, then at the exit, nose twitching.

“I think it left after we showed up,” he whispers and reaches for the door.

Erica’s out cold, five feet from the exit looking scarily dead and _much_ too thin and Lydia’s crouched beside her shaking like a leaf, looking equally sick but furious.

“Which djinn has skin that flares with the gold tattoos?” she snarls, her fingers on Erica’s pulse.

“Errissan,” Stiles supplies automatically, dropping beside her while Scott pulls his cell phone. “What happened?”

“Bitch came bolting out, put a hand on both of us and shoved. That’s all it took. When I looked up, she’d vanished.” Stiles picks up Erica’s freezing cold hand, squeezes hard, tries fingernails in the nerve bundles of her wrist and still nothing. “Scott? Would you mind breaking her finger?”

Scott cringes but nods, still filling Derek in via cellphone.  Stiles pulls Lydia back and lets her lean on him. She looks almost dead on her feet.

A tiny snap of bone later, Erica sits up with a golden-eyed snarl, claws nearly at Scott’s throat before recognition sets in. “Fuck,” she mutters tiredly, eyes fading back to brown. “Sorry.”

Everyone else comes spilling out of the exit door, Boyd and Jackson leading the charge and Lydia pretty much collapses against a very worried-looking Jackson while Boyd scoops Erica off the ground, bridal style.

“Making me look like a ninny, gorgeous,” she says woozily, and Boyd’s lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles. “Fine,” she relents. “You can be my hero.”

“Would Deaton know of any kind of restorative, or something, for this?” Stiles asks, really taking stock of Erica. She sort of looks like she did before the bite - weak and shaky.  And Lydia looks like too many sleepless nights being haunted by her inner Peter all over again.

They trudge back to the cars while Scott fills Melissa in via cell, supplying a description of the wayward djinn nurse. The fact that the djinn was heavily pregnant is a pretty telling clue. It also stops Stiles in his tracks, with a fleeting memory of a transcribed scroll in a book that smelled like soggy mold. When he catches up to the others, he knows exactly what to ask Deaton when they get there.

***********

Deaton _does_ have a restorative recipe - the ingredients of which he lists off to Stiles while looking Erica and Lydia over. Stiles gathers everything needed from shelves and drawers and a small trunk by Deaton’s desk. Deaton also understands what Stiles is asking when he mentions djinn harems and looks at least a little bit as horrified as Stiles feels.

“Harems, Stilinski?” Jackson’s giving him an infuriated look. “Lydia could have died and you want to get your slice of djinn booty?”

“What? Ew, no, obviously. I literally wouldn’t last five seconds,” he rushes, already breaking up herbs into a brass dish he’d plucked off Deaton’s desk and taking up a bottle of bluish dried berries and adding precisely three, crushing them to dust between his fingers, adds the oil next and pulls a box of matches from the drawer beside him and a bottle of purified water from the shelf over his head.

“Djinn harems are groups of pregnant djinn that frequently travel from place to place for their feedings, rarely killing but always hungry,” Deaton explains.  “The symptoms, depending on the type are so varied, they rarely draw attention. Thankfully, they’re only pregnant for about four months,” Deaton supplies, watching Stiles with cautious eyes as he lights the match, burns the herbs into the oil and adds the water. Deaton pours the mix into two small cups before handing them to his patients.

“They usually only kill to protect themselves or their unborn. It’s unexpected that they’ve killed twice in under a week.”

Erica sniffs at the mix, wrinkles her nose and shoots it like whisky before coughing hard, looking disgusted. At least now she looks _healthy_ and disgusted. She glowers at both Deaton and Stiles. “That,” she says, still cringing, “was nasty.” Deaton looks placid while Stiles looks sympathetic; it hadn’t smelled good either.

“Sorry, catwoman. At least you look _gorgeously_ disgusted again?”

Lydia, having just watched it work, chokes hers down too. Three seconds later she’s practically glowing. Almost in the literal sense.

“Wow,” someone says. It might be Stiles, but he’s too busy being _wowed_ to tell.

“What?” Lydia asks, shifting and looking wierdly self-conscious now with everyone staring, wide-eyed. Even Jackson’s looking a little stunned. She scowls at him when he says nothing.

“ _Wwwwhat??_ ” She demands as she tilts back a little.

“You’re radiant,” Stiles informs her on Jackson’s behalf, even as Jackson’s eyes narrow at him. “You’ve literally awed him silent. Seriously, you’re almost glowing. Literally.”

Lydia tries to hide her pleasure but smiles a dopey, Scott-worthy smile back at Jackson for all the words he didn’t say, humming a happy noise.

“Aaaand might be a little stoned by it, too,” Stiles adds. Lydia grins her happy grin at him next, then at everyone else. Stiles, at least, is amused. “Okay! Now we know another thing that does _not_ belong in the party punch.”

“Agreed,” Deaton says, lips twitching. Everyone else is finally shaking the effect off, a little.

“How come I didn’t get stoned and glowy?” Erica demands under her breath, a little unhappily.

“You had more overall life force to replenish, I believe,” Deaton tells her, nodding to himself. “Lydia?” He waits til her loopy gaze lands on him again with a loopy smile. “Did the djinn touch Erica longer than she touched you?”

“Hmmmm’nope! Saaaame time.”

“Ah. And were you about to scream before she touched you?”

“Yeeeeahhhh, how’d you know?” Everyone tenses up at that.

“But you didn’t scream, did you?” Deaton asks gently.

“Noooooo. That bitch yyyyanked it right outta me. Felt kinda weird, like peeling dried glue off your fingertip. Only outta my breath. Off my breath?” She looks woozily confused and Stiles finds himself snickering a little until the logic catches up.

“And that probably saved Erica’s life,” Stiles murmurs. Deaton’s nodding at him, looking somewhat speculative.

“I believe you’re right.”

“Wait, what? Erica would’ve died?” Derek looks a little ill and Boyd looks silently frantic. Everyone looks unnerved except Erica, who just looks startled and wide-eyed for a second before wrapping Lydia in a tight hug.

“Thanks,” Erica whispers. “For not letting me die.” Her voice is small and shaky.

“Aww,” Lydia coos, hugging back. “You’re pack. Nnnnnot letting you die. IIIIII’m against that, as a rule.”

Now everyone’s chuckling, like the heaviness of near death evaporated. But Stiles, at least, feels that this was just luck. He also feels, very seriously, that this isn’t the last of their troubles.

“Wait,” Derek starts, eyeing Stiles. “You said you wouldn’t last five seconds.”

It’s not a question, but Stiles answers anyway. “Supernatural energy,” he starts, looking to Deaton a little hopefully to fill in (Deaton just waves him on). “Uh... it normally packs a bigger punch than human? I think if it were, like Joe ‘down at the office’ there with Erica, Joe would’ve been sucked dry completely in the same amount of time that Erica and Lydia had.” Deaton’s nodding to him, confirming his suspicions.

“The next step, Derek, if I were you,” Deaton advises, “would be figuring out _why_ they’ve been killing when they didn’t need to. Errissan djinn aren’t the violent sort. It’s really not in their nature.”

***********

Everyone heads back to the loft after that and it seems they were all at the vets much longer than Stiles had realized. It’s just past 3am but it feels like a whole day has passed since he was reading about a great and terrible wand to a bunch of kids.

Those who have bedrooms disappear into them while Stiles is in the bathroom and when he returns, there’s nothing but cold hard floor space left to roost with the sofa and chairs covered in extra betas. Stiles sighs and packs his bag up. No one stops him when he slips quietly out.

He’s more than a little surprised to see his dad’s cruiser in the driveway when he gets there and even from the street, he can see a shadow through the window shuffling around unsteadily. He’s got half a mind to restart the Jeep and go crash at Scott’s (what good is a secret spare key if he never uses it?) or at least just get cozy and snooze right here in the driveway when the front door slams open and his dad’s shadow fills the doorway. Stiles takes a dozen deliberately deep, calming breaths, then slowly makes his way back up to the house to face the music.

***********

Stiles’ phone is ringing, somewhere. It’s not loud, but it’s definately there, demanding his attention and just won’t. Fucking. _Stop_.

He knows his growl isn’t remotely wolffish, but it’s still a little feral-sounding and guttural and actually makes him feel better. Derek’s obviously onto something there.

He finds it, at last, lit up and blinking in the mesh side pocket of his laptop bag across the room. His foot lands on something pokey and sharp when it hits the floor and he limp-hops the last few feet and pulls out his cell just as it finally dies. The cell’s battery dies, that is. Wasn’t he proclaiming something about luck just last night? Maybe he used the rest up.

He crawls back to the charger to plug it in and heads for the bathroom to brush away the swampy taste on his tongue. He’s feeling vaguely human again when he checks the phone five minutes later.  Derek, it seems, has learned all about the voicemail feature and declared pack training and work day at the old Hale house starting at noon. It’s just past nine, so... he’s not sure if he’s grounded?  Does grounding count if the person grounding won’t remember said grounding? Stiles is pretty sure his dad won’t remember anything from last night, well... at all, hopefully.

He peers through the curtains of his window and sees the cruiser’s gone and sighs, relieved. It’s not like his dad will be any less pissed if Stiles isn’t even around to disappoint him. He texts Derek back to say he’ll only be a little late and heads for the shower.

***********

The clinic is a quick visit to remove the last of the stitches that hadn’t desolved on their own and they proclaim his ribs well enough to not need tape. He’s practically skipping with almost (mostly) painless glee until he blows a tire on the way back, still a good half-hour’s drive from Beacon Hills.

He changes the tire only to discover that the spare needs fixing too, though not as much, and it might just get him close enough to home to call the pack to pick him up without needing to explain why he was even on that road.

‘Close’ isn’t quite ‘close enough’, though, still five miles out from Beacon Hills. And of course _now_ is when he realizes his cell is still hooked to the charger at home. Yeah, it’s one of _those_ days. The only luck left is the bad kind. But no worries, he can hike it. It won’t take that long, right?

When the rain starts, Stiles honest-to-god wants to cry. By the time he gets to the old Hale house which is amazingly half torn down, it’s nearly 4 in the afternoon and he’s soaked and shivering and miserable. Also, it’s nearly deserted. _Nearly_.

Derek glowers from the porch, his expression stoic and fixed and arms crossed -- full-on ‘overlord’ stance.

“You’re out, Stiles.”

Wait... _what_?  There’s no arguing with this particular tone of voice, Stiles knows, but he opens his mouth to say, well, _something,_ but Derek cuts him off in advance.

“You’ve only barely counted as pack since the beginning.” Stiles’ shivering stills, somewhat abruptly while he stares at Derek with growing horror. “You don’t show up to training or meetings or even spend time with any of the pack unless we demand it of you. You argue about everything, which is the kind of undermining I can’t tolerate. _No_   _alpha would._ ” He breathes deep, like this is actually hard _for him_. “You’re also human, and untrained. A lot of my old pack was too and they were the first ones to die. Being a part of this will only get you hurt, at best. At worst, killed. Now, you need to stay out of it.”

 _What the fuck?_ Stiles narrows his eyes, swallowing hard.

“I’m sure I counted as pack, at least when it came to saving your life. _Twice_. The pack won’t spend time with me, Derek, unless you demand it when you’re also deliberately _prohibiting_  them from it. I can’t help missing meetings I don’t even know about. I argue when another option makes sense, and even if the idea isn’t chosen, _every_ idea deserves to be heard. And no one is ever trained, wolf or otherwise, until someone trains them. And most of this county is human. Every fucking one of us has a right to defend it, and ourselves within it.”

Stiles’ pride isn’t limitless. “Don’t do this, Derek,” he chokes out. “ _Please_.”

Then he just stares at Derek, speechless and dripping. Every part of him feels cold from the outside in, but now it’s the kind of ‘right down to the bone’ cold that even shivers won’t help anymore and he’s not sure he’s got the energy now to shiver anyway. He just stares at Derek and Derek stares back, looking increasingly uncomfortable but mostly just glaring in leu of fidgeting.

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek says at last, lips thin and set. “ _And stay the fuck out of it._ ”

Stiles’ heart skips a weird beat like the little shock of a breaking heart before a sharp flash somewhere behind him startles him out of his stillness enough to turn around — just in time for the sonic boom of thunder to rush over and through him. When he looks back up at the house, Derek’s gone.

***********

Stiles knows his mattress is probably getting soaked as he just sits there drip-drying in his clothes, but can’t muster up the will to do anything about it. Scott’s only text of today just says ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ and was sent, Stiles thinks, a half hour or so after Derek had delivered his edict. Not one of his texts or calls since then as been returned.  From anyone.

The lights are off and the sun had set a while ago and the rain had finally given way to a clear and humid night. The only light coming in is, ironically, moonlight. It’s _that_ realization that thaws him just enough for the first tears to fall.

As soon as they do, the adjoining panic attack that had been laying in wait hits him full-force and the room tilts dangerously when his own panic-spasming muscles choke off his air and the moonlight fades out a terrifying minute later when unconsciousness finally sucks him under. He’s never been more grateful.

***********

Risking another embarrassing (possible) panic attack, he still tries with the pack, starting with Scott, ignoring his own sick exhaustion and jogs over to Scott’s the next day and the day after that. No dice. He knows Scott hears him coming, if he’s there at all. Stiles has a feeling he could be chasing Scott’s shadow all summer and never catch him. But if he can’t even manage _this_ much, what real use is he? After the third day’s painful jog and tenth text to Scott and another fortieth to the rest of the pack, he gives up.

***********

His dad, for one reason or another, hasn’t come home in four days. Stiles isn’t worried much, since today is the anniversary day of his mom’s death and his dad’s usually gone regardless for his yearly ‘day of the grieving drunk’. Stiles can’t bring himself to do the same, even if there are truly dangerous amounts of whisky hidden around the house. His dad had been doing so well for the last two years. It’s the chasm that Stiles built with the lies and sneaking around. If he can just get Dad to be home and sober for long enough, he could at least _try_ to repair it.

He walks out to the cemetery because he still hasn’t been up to calling someone (anyone) to help him retrieve his jeep. There’s not enough money in the ‘house account’ his dad set up for emergencies, bills and groceries to cover a tow truck, so he’s kinda on his own, unless his dad is feeling generous. Stiles scoffs to himself.  Wishful thinking, that.

He knows his dad’s been here, at least, because there’s fresh daisies laid out under his mom’s name and he lays down a handful of baby’s breath around them, just like he’s been doing every visit since the funeral. He sits in his usual spot and waits for the usual ramble to come tumbling out to tell her all the major events of the last year that she probably already knows about. She hasn’t heard it from _his_ point of view, though.

The words don’t come right away, and when they do, he’s not sure why they come as a poem he’d heard on some documentary about poets years ago.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
And when you wake in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the stars that shine at night.  
So do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die.”

Stiles wishes with everything he has that that’s true. Even unseen, knowing she was still close by is better than this lonely hollow inside that feels a little colder and a little sharper every day.

He leaves as silently as he came and impulsively calls Melissa. Having been one of his mom’s best friends, Melissa already knows what today is and doesn’t bother with the standard platitudes. She nods to him and he to her and then she drives him to Walmart to get some fix-a-flat and then out to his Jeep with the gas-powered air pump she’d borrowed from her neighbor.

He manages to fix both tires with that one can of foam and since he’s been wishing hard for just that since he paid for it with the last of the grocery money, he thinks maybe it’s a little like foamy mountain ash. Whatever, it still does the job. Problem solved.

Melissa pauses before climbing back into her car, then backtracks to hug him, warm and tight and he melts into it. This might honestly be the first physical contact he’s had since Derek slammed him into the wall in the loft and he needs to pull out of it before he starts weeping right there on the side of the road. He still has a tiny, fractional bit of manly pride left, after all.

She pulls away first, bless her, but looks at his face a little critically. “There’s been a bug going around lately. You need to take better care of yourself. Are you okay?” There’s more to that question than any answer could answer but he tries.  
“Been a rough month.” She gives him the beady-mom-eye until he adds: “I’ll be fine.”

Three days later, he’s not so sure anymore.

***********

Three days later, his path finally crosses with his dad again as Stiles stumbles, exhausted, out of his room to get a cup of water at 4 a.m. and actually walks right into him. He’s very, _very_ drunk this time and Stiles stumbles back a little alarmed when he thinks his dad’s face twists a little into something evil-looking in the near dark.

“Stilllll think you’re getting away with it all, _huh_?” His dad’s shadow slurs out. Stiles swallows, his mouth now extra-dry. “Still pushing the limits, _huh_?” A rough hand in the middle of his chest shoves him back viciously hard against the edge of the doorframe forcing a pained grunt out. Stiles freezes when the shadow of whisky fumes leans close, hand pinning him with bruising strength.

“Didn’t we teach you _it’s not nice to push_?” It comes out as a snarl and the shadow’s eyes are glinting wet and slick-looking in the meager light. Stiles holds his breath and waits. He can feel his own pulse ramping up along with his fear because this isn’t new. It’s just been a while. And it still has the potential to get much, much worse.

The shadow sways back, then stumbles toward the master bedroom, muttering under his breath. “Fuckin hyperactive lying little bastard. This is on _you_ ,” comes the slurring echo from down the hallway. “This is all _your_ doing. This is _your goddamn fault_.”

Stiles doesn’t move, not so much as a twitch until he hears his dad’s light snoring. He makes it to the bathroom just in time to hurl up his tiny bit of dinner. It feels more like he’s hurling out his hope.

***********

It’s been five days since then and those days have gotten progressively emptier with the sole exception of newly-added, exhaustion-induced flutters on the edge of his vision. His sleep, when he gets any at all, is broken by nightmares filled with oily slick eyes that twist and warp somehow, and sneering lipless mouths. Now every time he wakes up, it takes him longer to convince himself this is real.

He does his chores religiously because it takes up time, which he has too much of. He tries exercising, starts light with jumping jacks and a few random crunch sets and pushups, but the broken sleep is fucking with his stamina and it’s _so_  hard -too hard, sometimes, to make himself move.

Stiles had tried, _really_ tried, to go back to the children’s ward, but he hasn’t spoken a word in a solid week and doesn’t feel the need to anymore. He’s not even sure if he _can_ at this point. On his way back from his first and only attempt, he sees the pack tumbling out of the movie theater and everyone’s laughing at Isaac, who’s holding victory arms in the air.   Derek’s not laughing, but he’s smiling wide. 

Stiles wants to hate them, he thinks, but he can’t. _Can’t_. Every time he tries to come up with a new reason to hate them, or even to dislike them a little, he only finds reasons why _they_  clearly dislike _him_. They obviously don’t need him. It seems, from the outside, they’re honestly better off without him.

It takes him a while, though, to really give up trying anything.

***********

Stiles feels stupid. Like honestly, seriously stupid to think he could successfully outrun a feral werewolf (What else could he have done with that many kids on the playsets except draw the omega away?). But sometimes his instinct really _is_ stupid, (or non-existent,) because it took him _away_  from his jeep and not toward it. Evolution of the humanoid variety clearly skipped a few vital steps and now Stiles will be paying the price.

His gasping breaths are slowly leeching the last of his energy out of him as he races for the street from the jogging path he’d been on and then he’s suddenly face-down in the leaves and something just _stabs_ right into the meat behind his left shoulder and uses that grip to roll him and those teeth look much,  _much_ bigger than they had before his idiot instinct took over. Those sharpened points are darting down in a blur when they, and the lunatic they’re attached to, suddenly vanish with a rush of wind.

There’s a confused jumble of growls and vague thuds and his remaining adrenaline has him back on his feet in two seconds flat to see Scott and Derek wrestling the half-naked man to the ground. When they seem to have it pinned, Derek glares red-eyed and seething over his shoulder at him. “I told you to stay the fuck out of it.”

Stiles goes cold and blank all over again. “Had I realized there was anything other than my fellow joggers, nannies and kids out here, I’d have picked somewhere else to go,” he says, tonelessly and quiet. Derek just looks away and pulls out his cell phone. Scott doesn’t even look up at all so Stiles just... turns and leaves. No one follows, for which he’s soon grateful, because the only thing that can make a public panic attack worse is having someone there to witness it.

He drives to Deaton’s as soon as he’s sure he can without passing out. He doesn’t remember arriving or walking in or collapsing on the sofa in Deaton’s office, but here he is, shirtless and thankfully still numb head to toe while Deaton stitches the gashes on his shoulder and upper arm, all neat and tidy.

“Would you like some mountain ash?” Deaton asks, his face as judgeless and indifferent as always. Stiles nods slowly and then he’s timetraveled forward a whole hour and is now sitting in his room with a large duffle bag at his feet containing far more than just mountain ash. He’s not even sure of what to _do_  with the ash since there’s clearly never going to be any wolves coming through his window again.

Peering in at the herbs and oils, he wonders what or if he could possibly do with any of those that would actually improve his life right now or change anything at all, either good or bad. It doesn’t seem likely.

He showers carefully, locks his door, and dozes off into another restless nap.

***********

Since that park had an obvious wolf infestation, he changes things up by jogging the preserve just inside the tree line where he’d be noticed (maybe) from the road if he twisted an ankle and needed help his cellphone can’t deliver.

He starts at the beginning of a hiking trail that provides parking and works up a rhythm, lets his mind go for that hike he’s clearly not taking himself. His brain being on vacation is his only excuse for not seeing the girl until he’s tripping over her.

She’s tall-ish and brunette and is sporting a glower that could give the Grumpy Cat a run for it’s money. It’s just his luck that she comes up claws swinging and golden eyes flashing with anger and fear.  Also just his luck that it’s  _Stiles_ , the one and only _non-_ pack that finds her. She looks a little grungy and easily as tired as he feels and squints at him suspiciously when he doesn’t flee in terror.

Stiles shrugs, still passive. “This town is lousey with werewolves. Also maybe still lousey with djinn, too, so be careful.” He turns to jog back to his jeep when she hollers for him to wait and sprints to catch up.

“Do you know who the alpha is? Is her name Laura?” She’s obviously choking on tears — it’s in her voice and if he were her he’d probably feel the same (if he could feel anything at all). Especially when he tells her it’s Derek in charge because Laura is dead. She takes his word for it, though teary-eyed, and asks for a lift into town. He sighs, maybe a little resigned.

He drops her off a block from the loft and points out which building and asks if maybe she could tell Derek for him, that he’s still ‘out of it’, or trying to be. She’s confused but willing and asks who the message is from.

“Stiles,” he grunts out, staring at his white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel.

She nods. “Cora Hale.” He must surprise her again when he doesn’t react beyond a quick nod but she drops a ‘see you around, I guess’ and streaks over to the loft. It’s the kindest encounter he’s had since Melissa, unless Deaton counted, and he hates that he knows it. When he gets home he finally puts up the mountain ash barrier and feels his muscles relax in a way they haven’t for a while. But he still doesn’t sleep well.

***********

He’s gliding then falling, then swooping and diving down, down to city lights bright and so many voices.  So many choices.  He feels his prey, smells it in the tiny metal cave, jumps down, squeeze through, just right.  Not too big, not too small.  His meal looks surprised, wide yellow eyes.  She’ll taste better because of it.  The last ones did, too.

 

***********

The next djinn attack is too obvious to hide since it happens in a bank vault. Of course it made headlines. It’s pretty freaky. Stiles doesn’t deliberately investigate, but he can’t shut his ears to what he hears, either, which is a twisted double whammy of the corpse looking almost mummified and the vault having been shut tight and on a keyed timer. No one could figure it out.

Stiles is poking at his bacon and eggs, trying to recall the last time he’d felt hungry. He’d felt woozy enough to track down food but the fridge was near empty and the pantry had little beyond rice and dry noodles, so he’d braved the too-bright outdoors for cheap-ish diner food.

Nothing really feels nourishing, and everything tastes like ash and mud but he chokes it down anyway to give the acid in his stomach something to do other than give him the semi-permanent case of heartburn he’s been suffering for the last few weeks. Sadly, he fails his attempts to completely ignore the waitresses at the counter gossiping about the local mummy. His own waitress comes back with his bank card and the bill with an uncomfortable half-smile.

“I think your card may have expired or possibly didn’t have the funds? Would you like to pay another way?” He glares at the card when she hands it back because his dad’s not there to glare at instead. He gives her his last 10 dollar bill and tells her to keep the change and texts his dad twice with no response, then a call that goes unanswered as he slides out of the booth. His dad’s probably just busy with the mummy.

***********

Five days later and his dad _still_ hasn’t responded to his numerous texts and calls - and seems to only come home for a fresh uniform and maybe a shower when Stiles is asleep or out on a rare jog. The last bag of frozen peas he’d thawed two days ago didn’t exactly hit the spot, nutrition-wise, so he finally heads toward the station for an uncomfortable visit.

His dad, according to the new desk clerk, stepped out to get his own lunch and would he like to leave a message? Stiles explains that his dad’s the sheriff and tries not to feel ill when she seems surprised.

“I didn’t think he had any family since he’s here so much.” He’s sure she doesn’t mean it like that, but he only barely contains a miserable wince.

The diner a block over seems like the obvious spot and yes, that’s him in the window. Along with Melissa. And Scott. And Isaac. And Derek, Cora, Boyd and Erica and— he just stares for a second, conflicted until his dad looks up and stares back, lips thinning and looking a little nervous and a lot spiteful.  Stiles wonders what his own face looks like when he turns and heads back towards the station.

Officer Casey at the desk is a little confused but happy to give him some paper and a strip of tape. He writes the note quick while he still has the courage to and three minutes later smacks the note home with the tape to the outside of the diner window where everyone’s seated before he turns and heads back for the jeep. He’s going to regret this later, he knows. But it’s an honest note, at least.

Dear Dad, I know it’s easy to forget you’re legally responsible for a child when you almost never come home, but since I finally caught you, would you mind putting some money in the bank so I can get groceries? I haven’t eaten in two days and can’t really survive on the copious amounts of whiskey that you leave all over the house.

Thanks! - your only child.

He even adds a smiley face. :)

Yeah, he’s clearly lost his mind but feels a tiny vindictive satisfaction as he drives off. There’s plenty of money in the account an hour later but he doesn’t see his dad again for almost a week. Better than the alternative, he thinks.

Alas, the side effect of that stunt is Melissa who drops by leaving notes when he doesn’t answer the door and Deaton, oddly, who looks downright strange outside of his clinic.

But no one else stops by.

He hadn’t really thought they would.

 

 


	2. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don’t fall far when you’re at rock bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger-y violent scenes in this chapter. You’ve been warned.
> 
> Also - pseudo prostitution.

The nightmares are getting worse.  At least, Stiles assumes they are, but he rarely remembers much about them except the paralyzing sense of _off_ and _wrong._ But he wakes with cold sweats and tears and snot and nausea and they always leave him shivering in terror so they must be awful.  

It’s been three days since he’d seen them at the diner - since he’d last seen his dad and he’s not sure why that matters so much when, yeah, so...

Derek was right, the asshole.  Stiles just can’t anymore because he’s just not fucking strong enough.It would’ve maybe gotten him killed but now he can’t seem to get over that speed bump of ‘unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary, _un-pack_.’It hurts, in that same ice cold way that’s becoming so familiar, knowing how true it is. 

Not to mention fucking obvious because let’s face it.He hadn’t fit in with the pack so much as wedged a space in for himself and they allowed it because he was borderline useful.  _Was_ , being the appropriate term.He’d always been the odd one out.He’d always been the literal mis-fit.He’d just been the last to admit it.

***********

He’d caught sight of something in the dim hallway earlier and for a second had thought someone broke in and was just as surprised to see someone else standing there as he was.The guy looked like a sickly sort of junky with crazy bedhead and deep-set eyes that narrowed in confusion.He was too thin and gangly and it seriously takes Stiles a minute to accept that it’s _him_ in there.Mirrors can’t lie, can they? 

He starts avoiding mirrors because —jesus, it’s no wonder they ditched him.It’s more a wonder that it took them so long.He thinks maybe this is why his dad only ever sees him when he’s full-on plastered because _this_ is what he sees.This is all the genetic material of the woman he’ll never get over that’s left in this world.It might break his heart too, if he thought he still had one.

***********

The bank money is rapidly disappearing again, likely back-paying the bills that had stacked up and half as much to liquor stores, so he draws out some cash for gas and buys a carton of ramen noodles and vitamins and juice concentrate as bare essentials.He’s not sure he can face another painful encounter with his dad, so he actually pulls out the digital classifieds and looks for a job.He needs the distraction from his life, something to fill the empty hours of silence.Maybe he can save up and just.... go.

He knows he could.  Few know it, but he’s almost 18, a full year and a half older than most of his class, thanks to his mother’s death and before that, undiagnosed ADHD that had him starting Kindergarten late, but now it gives him the advantage of possibly and legally escaping this hell. 

He finds a legit job in Beacon Trails, out near the clinic at a packing facility where he won’t need to deal with many people as long as he keeps his head down.The money is shit and the floor manager seems surprised that Stiles is so willing to take a drug test, but seems happy to have an employee with 24/7 flexible work hours.

Everything’s fine and easy for the first two weeks until someone cracks him upside the head after he’d just cashed his second check at the insta-loan place and he wakes a few hours later without wallet or cell phone.He drives home frustrated with his head one giant ache and seeing his dad’s cruiser in the driveway, doesn’t even hesitate speeding by. 

He goes back to Derek’s old abandoned ‘subway to nowhere’ station and sleeps off the worst of the headache in the jeep where he’s hidden it behind a line of ancient, forgotten dumpsters.His dad’s gone when he goes back again.

He’s had his first paycheck emergency cash buried in the dashboard and now uses some for a mini-taser and a cheap cellphone before heading back to work the next day, only to be told by a slightly smarmy floor manager that his job is no longer available.Stiles grinds his teeth and suspects it’s the manager who’d eventually gotten his wallet but just nods once, furious, and leaves.  _Asshole_.

***********

After two days at home the house account is officially empty again and the weight of silence begins to turn into those ever-present flutters at the edge of his vision into flutters in the shade of trees and the gap under his bed and the dark hollow of the garbage disposal and it all gets just... too much. 

He heads to Beacon Valley, which isn’t much further than Beacon Trails and finds a quick four day job at a bar and grill as a dishwasher.Cash under the table, it pays better than the packing facility and the manager doesn’t ask questions but keeps Stiles’ cell number just in case he needs a quick filler job again. 

But the manager also mentions a diner at the other end of town that may need a quick hire too.They do, and Stiles finds that menial work is maybe the best kind for him now because nothing here reminds him of home or pack or wolves or djinn or any of it.  It’s an honest relief to just pretend for a while that he’s someone else entirely.

***********

It was too good to last.The diner’s evening manager is locking up out front just past midnight and drives off as Stiles is taking the last trash bags to the dumpster in the badly-lit little alley out back.He fights off instinctual panic when he slams down the dumpster lid after depositing the last of the large bags, turns, and runs straight into a very tall fleshy wall that laughs outright, a little drunkenly, and his shorter friend beside him gives him an almost playful arm punch, wheezing with hilarity.

“Looky, looky!“ the bigger guy chuckles darkly.“A skinny l’il twink, allll _alone._ ” Stiles’ stomach drops hard and fast and he backsteps which only lands him solid against the side of the dumpster, trapped.The larger one who’d spoken takes a drag off his half-gone cigarette which lights up slick-dark eyes that are twisting freakishly in the same way his dad’s had weeks ago.Stiles is honestly too scared to move now because he’s not half-asleep this time.The cigarette flares in the dark again and now the guy’s got a small wad of cash between two fingers and a narrowed, assessing look.

“I got a need, kid.Quick and easy and done.” His buddy is still wheezing with mirth but strides back toward the alley entrence, weaving a little.Stiles’ eyes shift from drunk A in front of him to drunk B now pissing against the side of a building and (to his own shame), to the cash.“I’ll wrap up if you get on your knees in the next five seconds.” 

Time somehow fastforwards again like it had that day at Deaton’s for the stitches in his shoulder and now Stiles is on his knees, cash in hand with his head pressed back against that same reeking dumpster, mouth wide and full.The latex tastes awful and feels weird on his tongue and there’s a large hand threaded tight in his hair and he’s always suspected he had no gag reflex but he definitely knows it now. 

The guy is grunting out little noises and words like ‘ _tighter, cock-sucking lips, fuck that’s nice_ ’ and finally presses in so deep Stiles’ air is gone and there’s sour-smelling pubes smooshing his nose under the guy’s heavy belly.The mass in his throat twitches and Stiles’ eyes roll back a little because he hadn’t even realized he, himself was hard until his balls throb angrily and then he’s coming untouched in his own pants.The sound of a zipper drawing up brings him back and he’s breathing hard and still on his knees and then his eyes well up in sick horror and humiliation.

“Liked that, huh?” The guy rumbles in the dark while he fishes out another cigarette, lights it and tosses it down beside Stiles _(why?)_ then lights another for himself.Stiles closes his eyes and turns his head away, still silent.“Maybe I’ll find you out here again sometime.You’ve got the perfect pretty mouth for it.”

Both the drunks fade out onto the main street when he looks up again and the money is still in his hand and there’s a condom leaking out onto the knee of his jeans and then he’s ripping open his own zipper with a whine, pulling out his still hard dick and jerks off fast and hard and desperate, mouth gaping open a little and gasping like he’s waiting for another cock to magically shove in.He’s comes harder than he ever has before, head still pressed to the rank dumpster in the dark. 

He feels more alive than he has in a month and doesn’t realize until he’s zipping back up that he’s had that taser in his pocket the whole time and never once thought of using it. 

He feels sick and disgusting.But... he also feels _better_ , somehow.He smokes the cigarette on his way to the jeep because, screw it... why not?

***********

His summer break is nearly half gone when he sees his dad again.He’d forgotten to lock his door and is sleeping off a shift and a half at the diner when the sound of glass breaking close-by yanks him out of another nightmare where those hungry, inky eyes leap and glide high above the forest, higher still until they zero in on the lights of the town again before Stiles himself jolts awake.

The wall above his head reeks of booze and wet glass chunks shift and clink in the sheets by his shoulder.The shadow standing over his bed grabs him by the hair and yanks him to the floor, breathing heavily.“Fuckin’ good for nothing little shit, you just couldn’t — fucking _werewolves_ and _lizards_ and you thought you could _HIDE IT FROM ME??_ ”

He’s screaming directly into Stiles’ ear and Stiles flinches with a whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase but it’s night and there’s no moon and he can’t see and suddenly can’t breathe either when a heavy boot drives into his side.His muscles want to curl up but he’s frozen, locked in place by shock and pain and stays that way even when the belt strap turns his bare back to a sheet of liquid fire.And then again and again until he loses track, eyes clenched closed as he finally curls himself up into a ball and just prays he’ll disappear.  He thinks he passes out wondering, not for the first time, if he maybe deserves it.  And then he thinks nothing at all.

The sunbeam is excruciating on his eyeballs, even through his eyelids, and he’s dizzy even without moving his head.His cheeks are still wet and from the corner of his eye he can see his door is closed.A slam of the front door downstairs has his breath catching and holding until he hears the cruiser’s lazy engine fire up before it rolls out and away.

He crawls trembling and dizzy out to the bathroom and into the shower still in his boxers and almost vomits when he turns the water on and it’s freezing cold when it hits his back.He passes out again instead.

It’s mostly just deep bruising he finds when he wakes again.There’s one spot near his lower spine on the left that’s scabbing over. He rubs neosporin into it as best he can and carefully tapes a bandage over it.There’s a thick, swollen bruise just below his rib cage that makes it hard to breathe but he’s had worse.He just doesn’t have a friendly retreat to hide out at anymore.He’s got no one at all.

He’s got half a mind to text the pack and tell them ‘spilled secrets and whiskey don’t mix well, y’know, _ever_ ’ but knows that’ll just bring humiliating questions to his door.It would definitely bring pity and mockery if not outright disdain because at nearly 18 he’s actually a little taller than his dad now and he can’t even get away from a 47 year old overweight drunk?

Yeah, well, it’s shit like this that’s the reason he’s not _in_ the pack anymore. He doesn’t think it’s about self pity when he’s the same person he’s always been; the truth has just never been more obvious.He was stupid to not have had a plan before now to get himself out of it if he had to, but now he’s catching up, a little.Over five hundred bucks in cash now and he’ll have plenty more by the time school starts.He can even go to a different school if he needs to.He’ll stay to graduate, one way or another.He pawns all his video games on the way to his next shift.

***********

He starts screaming his way out of his nightmares two days later and it only takes once for that violent whiskey-scented shadow with the warping inky-slick eyes, (this time with bonus sneering lipless mouth) to barge in and give him a solid smack to his face and a fist to his ribs to remind the idiotic little shit that he’s to be neither seen nor heard. 

It’s hard to fall asleep with a rolled up rag in his mouth, but he manages.Like everything else, he gets used to it.

***********

Out of nowhere comes a call from an unknown number that Stiles feels compelled to answer.  He fights that compulsion, hard, for three days straight, because he’s got shit that needs doing and interruptions never bring good news - not for him.He makes sure to snarl when he eventually answers because thanks to those fucked up nightmares he’s starting to remember more and more of, he hasn’t slept in those same three days and now he’s twitching with exhaustion and his heart keeps skipping off-beats and he knows what that means.  He knows what it says about himself, too, that he’s not worried about it.

“ _WHAT?”_ He demands as he pulls the last of the cables from his xbox and ps3 and his Wii to haul out to his jeep.He fishes around for the other ps3 controller he was sure he’d just seen.

“Stiles?” Comes a vaguely familiar voice.

“Wrong number,” he mutters and has his thumb on the disconnect when she responds.

“It’s Cora.”It makes him pause.She barrels on, though quietly.“It’s important.Can you come meet me?”

He sighs, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his achy right eye.  He needs this to be done.  And who knows?  Maybe meeting her will get it done faster.

“Just you?”  It’ll have to be or she’s shit out of luck.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” she says, almost at a whisper.That makes him pause again, suspicious bordering on mildly concerned.Very mildly. (More than mild.)

“Is there a reason you don’t want whoever might be listening to know about this future potential conversation?No, scratch that, I _know_ there’s a reason.Will I be any safer than you are if I come to meet you?‘Cause I’m kinda at my wits end with everything that goes bump in night, in the day and pretty much all the other minutes in between.”

She huffs.“I don’t break promises unless it’s life or death type of unavoidable, so... I can’t promise absolute safety.But I think you’ll be safe.I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t.”Lucky her; Stiles can imagine just fine.

But he sighs because hers is the kind of honesty he can respect.Girl clearly has inherited all the social diplomatic skills Derek lacks completely.He feels somewhat better now for the pack’s overall future well-being.He bizarrely still cares about the pack, though he doesn’t know why.Okay, so _that’s_ BS, but he _wishes_ he didn’t - wishes it had an off-switch.

“Right, okay,” he relents with a tired sigh.“Sooner the better, I take it?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“How about Deaton’s?”

There’s a short pause, then “Okay.At least he can keep secrets.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s actually his superpower;Vet by day, secret keeper by night.”

She snorts. “How about in a half hour?”

***********

They do meet at Deaton’s, though Deaton’s out for lunch, according to the little sign on the door.

“You said important,”he begins, leaning against the Jeep’s front grill still wrapped in his hoody, even under the hot sun.He’s always cold now.Probably the weight loss.

She nods but is (rudely) giving him a critical once over with a worried frown.“Are you okay?” She finally asks, taking her shades off and squinting at him then flinches a little at whatever expression had just come over him.He’s aiming for an apathetic glower and is pretty sure he missed the mark.

“Yes, and that’s the only personal question I’ll be answering because you sounded nervous when you called and here I am, out in the open with you, risking an ass kicking from your brother.Now what is so important that you needed to see me for?”

She huffs but nods.“Uncle Peter’s vanished, and while it’s not the first time, it’s the first time he’s vanished after saying something jinx-worthy like ‘This is bigger than we thought, but I doubt it means trouble for us, specifically.I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ 

“And Derek’s losing his shit more and more everyday and none of the other betas can _do_ anything about it, because he’s the alpha.I have a little more flexibility because I’m blood kin and I’ve been treating him as an alpha, just... not mine.”

Stiles shifts his stance, feeling nervous on her behalf.

“Okay... have you told Deaton yet?And why tell me?Lydia doesn’t have the same restrictions as the wolves, nor does Allison.Allison does, on the other hand, have her dad’s proverbial army and since someone spilled the beans to my father, they could probably get his help with whatever ‘ _it_ ’ is that’s bigger than Peter thought.And no, I don’t actually _want_ to know.I’m perfectly happy in the ‘overview’ by proxy area where I’ve been relatively safe for the last two months.”  Of course, his own relative safety is debatable, these days.

Her eyebrows have clearly had the same expressive training as Derek’s when she huffs again with a frustrated glower.

“Mr. Stilinski, Miss Hale, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”Deaton, the sneaky fucker, surprises even Cora into flinching when he appears out from behind the Jeep from seemingly nowhere at all.

“Hey Doc,” he greets quietly.He suddenly feels ten times better now that he won’t be the sole inheritor of the local spooky news. 

Deaton lets them both in and shuttles them to the back while Cora repeats her story and concerns.Deaton, being Deaton, doesn’t look all that surprised by any of it, nor overly worried.But then, it’s _Deaton;_ he rarely looks anything but neutral even if, as Stiles suspects, he actually _is_ worried.

“And how can I help?”Deaton asks at last.

“You were mom’s emissary.Her closest advisor.  _Advise us!”_  Cora grinds out, but it’s clearly a plea.

“She means advise ‘ _her_ ’,” Stiles cuts in.“I’m Switzerland here,” he corrects and Deaton frowns at him for a microsecond before nodding once.Cora just scowls.  Stiles feels for her, a little, but she came back to Beacon Hills to be with her remaining family, for her _pack_ , and Stiles is neither.

“My advice is to have an open, round table pack discussion on both Peter’s whereabouts and Derek’s current state of mind.It sounds like Derek’s reactions are a bit overblown for the current supernatural climate.It’s possible something’s effecting him.” 

Stiles frowns at that.More than possible, maybe, if the djinn harem is still in town.He doesn’t say that aloud, but suspects Deaton’s maybe on the same mental track.

“Any chance I can, like, call you in as an independent agent to explain how that’s possible for this round table talk?” she asks.Somewhere in her eyes there’s a spark of genuine desperation that says she _knows_ she’s in over her head and needs a lifeline.   _Any_  lifeline.  Which is likely the only reason she’d called Stiles, of all people.

Deaton sighs, shoulders slumping oddly, but he nods.“Of course, just let me know when.I’ll make time.”Even Deaton looks tired, Stiles notes, and then wonders if it’s just Stiles that notices it or if it’s him seeing things again.He shoves that thought to the back of his head and hope it drowns in the ever-present mental ocean of things he hates to think about and would rather just forget.  It’s a pretty full ocean, these days.

Still, Deaton’s words have Cora’s shoulders lifting a little until her lips twitch into something like a smile.

“Thanks,” she tells him, eyes shifting to Stiles to include him too, even though he hadn’t done much but listen and she gives them both an extra parting nod as she heads for the door. 

Stiles is already moving to follow when Deaton calls him back and then waits for the outer door to shut before he speaks.

“I know you’re trying hard to distance yourself, as was asked of you,” Deaton begins, “and I certainly won’t be the person to steer you one way or another, but...”

Stiles sighs, again, and rubs the heals of his hands into both eyes because he just reeeeeeally doesn’t want this sort of talk.He hopes his exhausted expression says as much.Deaton nods in understanding, but presses on anyway.

“There was a book in that bag I gave you.Small magics, of the personal protection variety.Things anyone with a spark can manage, given a bit of practice.I honestly think it would help if you at least browsed through it.” 

Stiles has the sudden desire to start running and _never stop_ because while the words are neutral, something in Deaton’s eyes says he’s maybe more than aware of everything Stiles has been through - everything he’s _done_.He clenches his jaw hard, nods shortly and hurries out.

***********

Stiles has been religious about locking his door and even more so about using his rag gag while he sleeps.But when he wakes in the afternoon a few days later, his doorknob is gone completely and has been replaced by a splintered hole and he’s laying in a tacky pool of drying vomit and blood.  His throat and chest ache and he can feel a lump in his hairline over his right ear that’s gritty with brownish flakes and crawls slowly and shakily out to the bathroom. 

He doesn’t remember anything beyond falling into a fitful sleep.Nothing _at all_.He feels like he should be scared by that fact, but mentally he’s still just cold and numb.It’s probably the best he can ask for.

His skin feels sunburnt, front _and_ back from neck to calf and both of his left pinky and ring fingers jut out at an odd angle and swollen up.He passes out under the stream of cold water for the second time in as many weeks.

***********

When he finds the post-it on the wall by the front door, he stares at it just trying to determine if it’s real or if it’s some kind of sick hallucination.Lately, one doesn’t seem to necessarily negate the other. 

_Hey kiddo, Happy Birthday!I know things have been off between us lately, but can we sit down for lunch soon?We have things to talk about.— Dad_ :)

He b-lines for the downstairs bathroom and throws up the mass of acid burbling there before he hunts down all their camping gear and throws it in the jeep with hands that won’t stop trembling, then goes back and packs up everything he thinks he’ll need for the foreseeable future, clothes and all.His back is screaming when he’s done and he thinks a few of the worst lashes have begun bleeding again, but keeps himself moving.He’s never needed so badly to _not_ be somewhere than he does right the fuck now.He refuses to cry when he locks the door behind him.

***********

“You sure you don’t want to report this?” The overly-helpful nurse practitioner at the clinic asks again.The doctor had frowned heavily while insinuating the police would be here as soon as he said ‘yup’ (or possibly before) but gave in with a pinched expression when Stiles flashed his newly replaced ID.At 18, he can now choose _not_ to report it, and as medical professionals, they can’t break doctor/patient privileges.

“Yes.I’m sure.It won’t be happening again.”He’s face down on the exam bench and the nurse practitioner is stitching up the last of the tears in his back with the same expression Melissa always got when she was trying hard not to cry.Stiles just lays his head down and dozes until she’s done.They give him some complimentary antibiotics and a few semi-serious pain killers on his way out.

***********

He suffers his way through the late shift at the diner and finds himself more exhausted than he has words for when he finally heads out back for his Jeep, flinching a little with each step and stops short.That asshole of a drunk is back, this time with a new friend, just standing in the alley entry, staring.The ‘friend’ looks nervous and fidgets, like he’s wondering how the hell he’d gotten here and how quick he could get out, but Stiles only has eyes for the asshole that skull fucked him, and lets his blatant lick of his lower lip speak for itself.He needs to feel _something_ more than this arctic chill and painful silence. 

He’s got no clue what he’s doing and doesn’t really care but ends up pressed against the dumpster again, hair smearing into whatever greasy shit leaked out over the side, only this time with his own dick out too. He’s not stroking so much as letting it air cause he’s sure he’ll get at least one orgasm for his birthday.It’s not like he’d gotten anything else.

“Look at you, fuckin’ nasty, junky little twink, you just love it, being used like a whore.”That hand is back in his hair, too tight and just right while he pumps himself between Stiles’ slick lips, slowing and speeding to make it last longer.“Yeah, you do.I bet right here by the dumpster’s what turns you on.Used like the trash you are with those cocksucking lips.”He yanks out and yanks Stiles’ hair sharply upward toward his face.“Say it,” the shadow snarls.

“Yeah,” Stiles rasps, feels his dick twitch with expectation.He’s not disappointed when the slap comes hard and sharp, or when the spit lands on the edge of his mouth and he moans around that fat cock when it shoves back in, deep and violent and _so fucking perfect._

“Yeah, you do.Need to keep that mouth filled.‘S why I brought a friend.Sick little shit, we’re doing you a favor, keeping you full.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to feel about the fact that he thinks this asshole’s right.  And it just turns him on _more._

The shadow’s breath is growing ragged, nearing his end and he shifts a little before shoving in deep, cock twitching in the thin condom and Stiles comes hard on the ground between his splayed knees, untouched.

He hears a muttered ‘ _fuuuuuck’_ from the other guy, but he’s too busy mentally screaming from where his back is now grinding against metal and his dick is reminding him he’s far from done, now that Stiles has figured out his ultimate fucked-up go button. 

The drunk shadow’s dick is soon replaced with another, and a good hair yanking has him looking up at even more warping eyes, only these more like black pools of sinking ink that _terrify_  him to the bone and he finds he _can’t_ look away when the guy smiles with sharp teeth and a lipless mouth stretching too wide like some kind of a nightmare clown.

This dude’s actually longer than Drunken Shadow guy and throws the money at Stiles’ face while he’s busy pressing so deep Stiles can’t breathe, (then deeper) and a part of him wants to panic and thrash but he can’t when he can’t look away from those _teeth_ , from those _eyes_.But Stiles’ dick is more than happy to dribble out a few drops before he guy starts fucking long and slow, giving Stiles only a quick second to pull in more air. 

Dude doesn’t even last a full minute (thank fuck) before he’s twitching into his condom, yanking back at the last second to rip it off and finish that last few spurts by hand.It lands on Stiles’ balls and Stiles gasps and stares, quaking and speechless and frozen up at the pitiless, terrifying face.  But the second he can move, he has himself in hand a half-second later, slicked by the jizz on his balls and comes and comes and when the first stream of piss hits hit shirt, then down to soak Stiles’ hand and dick he spurts one last time with a pained whine, his eyes finally squeezing shut.

“Fuckin’ nasty habit you have kid,” shadow clown guy sneers, zipping up.His face is normal again, but thankfully unidentifiable in the dim alley.Another wad of cash lands by his knee when Stiles starts to tremble.“Remember, hang out with trash, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Stiles is alone a minute later, counting money in the dark.The guy ‘tipped’ him three hundred, _jesus_.He knows, _he knows_  it’s fucking sick and still he squeezes the jizz out one of the used condoms and jacks himself off with it, hard and cruel and painful one last time before he finally zips up.The trembling’s gone again and he feels more alive now, but he also starts to wonder if he really is.

***********

The campground he’d chosen earlier just outside Beacon Trails has 24/7 shower rooms, _thank god_ , and he’d found a spot earlier today far from the more populated areas to bed down in his tent with no one else in earshot.He does line his campsite with mountain ash because it feels safer, and this time manages to do the whole area with nothing but a half a handful of ash.He’s getting better with it, apparently.

That seems like all the shove he needs to finally peek into that book Deaton had left him and now he _absolutely_ wishes he could go back in time and read it the day he’d gotten it.There’s _awesomely_ useful stuff in here.   _A lot_  of awesomely useful stuff if he can get any of it to work.He takes all three of the pain pills and reads himself to sleep.

***********

Stiles’ shitty replacement cell has limited ringtones and _all_  of them are obnoxious — especially the one that wakes him.He doesn’t think he dreamed much, if at all, on his triple dose of Tramadol, but now he feels like he’s swimming through quicksand or syrup or something and kinda regrets it.

“Lo?” he rasps, sleep-stupidly failing to check the caller ID.

“ _Stiles?_!”

... _shit_.Also, _huh?_ Since when does his father sound concerned?And since when does his father _call him?_ He pulls the phone away and squints at it.He’d be well within his rights to hang up, obviously. 

Fucking _justified_ , even.

But he’s obviously a masochist, (last night had maybe proved that) so he puts the phone to his ear again.

“Yeah,” he says after a minute.

There’s a relieved ‘ _thank god_ ’ in the background before “Where are you?I saw the blood in your room —“ There’s a little choked noise from the speaker.“ _What happened_?Are you alright?” 

So... his father was blackout drunk, then.  _Jesus_.  Well _that_ just makes it all fucking better, doesn’t it?

‘Is he alright?’  Really?  There are so many childish responses to that question he doesn’t even know where to begin.But he’s not a child anymore.He’s not sure he’s really been a child since his mom got sick and died.

“Sorry about the mess, then.I’ll be fine.”His voice is bland and leaning toward bored.He’s impressed that he manages to keep it steady. 

“Where are you?” Comes again and he blinks at the tent ceiling, hears birdsong and wind and hopes it doesn’t actually filter through the speaker and give up any clues.He hopes very, _very_ hard.

“Out and about,” he replies.“Why?”

“It’s time to come home, son.”The tone is severe and parental with a sprinkling of lawman and would’ve made him quake in his hightops a year ago.

But... things have changed.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he says honestly.

 _That_ gives his father pause, and not a light fluffy one.Drunk or sober, he knows at 18, Stiles doesn’t need to return.He certainly can’t _force_ him to.

“Well, I do.Stiles,” he tries anyway, “there’s some serious discussions we need to have, and soon.”

Stiles breathes slow and deep and promises himself _he. will. not. lose. his. shit_ \- not now that he’s finally out and _free_.

“I disagree, and honestly, I don’t think you should push the issue.After all, you taught me ‘ _it’s not nice to push_ ’.”He sneers the phrase cold and harsh and waits for an answering sneered reply.

But there’s dead silence for a full ten seconds before a clatter of plastic meeting a floor and he can hear a scuffle of some kind mixed in with a choked “oh my god, no, no.”

Ah.He was nearly blackout drunk then, too.  Offffffff course he was.

His thumb is almost on the disconnect when Melissa’s voice pipes through, sounding more than a little teary-eyed and frantic.

“Stiles, it’s Melissa, please don’t hang up.Or, hang up and call my cell.Please?I’m headed out right now.”He hears his father’s front door slam and can tell she’s hurrying.He’s frowning, mind going a little numb all over again staring at the tent roof.But, this is Melissa, his mom’s friend.His ex-brother’s mother.

“I’ll call your cell,” he mumbles and hangs up.

***********

He hits the head (thick bushes) before he calls using the other cellphone he’d picked up.It’s registered to Bruce Wayne, number unavailable.He turns his own cell off and removes the battery after the first call rang in from his father’s landline number.  Not a chance in hell he’s dealing with that again today.

“Stiles?” Melissa sounds uncertain and it takes a second before he remembers who he’d registered the cell under.

“Yeah, I’m here.And to save some time, _no,_ I won’t tell you where I am, where I’ve been or where I’m going, if anywhere.While I trust you, I can’t trust that anything I say won’t get back to the pack somehow and I’ve pissed them off too much already.I’m as safe as I can be, all things considered.I’m healing, in damn near every way possible, and I need both time and space to do it.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Okay.”Her voice is stronger and certain and steady, half-way into nurse mode. “Okay, that’s fair.A nurse I used to work with called me, concerned.Someone at the clinic recognized you and I came over to check.”He can hear her breathing heavily through her nose, like she’s prone to when she’s truly pissed off.  “Do you want me to kill him?Cause I will, hand to god, and I don’t care what kind of curse or sickness is infecting the town, I _absolutely_ will.”

He snorts a rusty laugh, then winces at how weirdly unfamiliar it feels.Then her words catch up with his brain.He takes a stab in the dark approach. 

“Twisting, warping, demonic-ish features, inky-slick eyes, insomnia, waking nightmare kinda shit?That sort of thing?”

“Wait, what?” Her voice goes a little quiet and choked and rough.

“At first,” he says, settling onto the back bumper of the jeep, “I thought I was losing my mind, since I only saw it when I was half asleep. Then I saw it when I was wide awake and _knew_ I was losing my mind.”He swallows hard at the memory of that face in the dark alley.“And they were subtle little flashes at first, wrapped in natural shadow, there and gone like the buildup to a jump scare at a haunted house.But the images are more distinct every time I see another, like it’s.... I don’t know, like it’s becoming real when it was only ever a scary thought before,” he says slow and quiet and distant.“It’s evolving.”And the more he says, the more he can see the pattern now, etched in the leaves of the forest, telling a story no one’s ever heard.

Melissa laughs, shakily.“Okay.  _Shit_.”

“Swear jar,” he murmurs, distracted by the wind playing through the branches above, shifting his part in the story, just a little.Melissa laughs again, easier and brighter and Stiles blinks the world back into focus.

“Yeah, I might’ve earned a freebie, just this once.I haven’t told anyone what I’ve seen.Once at the hospital.Once at a gas station.Thought I was losing it, too.”She sounds so relieved, so sincere, a tiny bit inside him thaws and warms him.He’s not sure it’s a good thing, though.This chilly pit is the only armor he’s had.  It suddenly feels like losing it might kill him.

“Maybe we can request adjoining rooms at Eichen House,” he suggests. 

“I think I’d rather figure this out and fix it, if we can, before it comes to that.”Her voice has gone quiet again.Quiet and scared.  He can feel it, even through the phone.

“The safest bet is probably to pack our shit and drive east as fast as we can.”He’s only half kidding.  _Really_.Whatever this is, it’s scarier than anything he’s ever imagined, and his imagination is fucking _vivid._

“Maybe.But what’s the guarantee it won’t spread east, given enough time?”Wise woman, Melissa.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he murmurs seriously. “.... crap.”

“Well, it’s our damn town, kid,” she says at last.  “I won’t feel right leaving unless I at least _try_ to figure this out.”

Except... Stiles _knows_ better; he knows _her_ better.Because it’s  _she_ that knows that in the end, it’s really _he_ who won’t leave without trying to figure it out.  He just needed a reminder.

“That’s a backhanded, sneaky mom move,” he tells her bluntly, impressed.

“It’s a gift.”They’re both quiet for a moment.

“You’re welcome to come stay with me, you know,” she says at last.“I’ve got mountain ash, now, and I know how to use it.”  She’s serious, he knows, but—

“Can’t.Too close to my father’s, and I can’t annex Scott from his own home.He needs you too.”But he sighs, kinda wishing he could.

“I know.The offer’s open, though.You still have a key, after all.”She sounds amused.

“You made me give it back, you grump.”

“True.I meant the _other_  copy you’ll swear you don’t have.” _Daaaaamn._ She’s _good_.

“Touché,” he murmurs with a tiny upward lip twitch.“I need to go, for now.”

“Can I get this number?For emergencies?”

“I’ll check my usual number twice a day.6 and 6, starting tomorrow.Leave me a text, but only when you need to, and I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

“‘Kay,” she relents.“I’m at work now anyway.Take care of yourself.And call.  _Please_.”

“I will.”He means it.He hangs up.He goes back to watching the trees.

 


	3. Ito Pack

Somehow, Tramadol equals healing sleep equals the two broken fingers on his left hand _no longer being broken_.  Somehow.

The lump on his head is still lumpy, but way less than it should be and the scabs have already flaked away revealing soft new skin.The near full-body bruising of yesterday looks at least a week old and starting to fade, though the stitched up parts of his back still sting if he moves too fast.

It normally feels a little worse the first few days after.Blessed be the Tramadol and a solid night’s sleep.Well, four solid hours of nightmare-free sleep, which is apparently the next best thing.  It’s the best he’s managed in months.

The trees aren’t telling him much just now, so he goes back to reading about magic and digs through the mountain of junk in the trunk (heh) of his jeep and finds the baggies and jars that Deaton had donated still in the duffel.

He makes another restorative potion then realizes he doesn’t have anything to pour it into so, with a wary shrug, knocks it back quick, like the girls had.The girls were right; that shit’s _nasty_.Also, he may have made it wrong?He doesn’t feel any different.

He tries out a personal protection shield thing with acrystal and it helpfully goes from clear to dark purple, which should mean it’s active and ready. 

There’s a dozen other potions and spells he wants to try out, but needs other ingredients.He definitely wants safety, but he sort of needs the money more just now.He heads out early for his shift at the bar, and swings through McDonalds first, chokes down some nuggets and fries and a kiddie carton of milk and uses their WiFi to find that, yup, Beacon Valley township has a small tea, herb and oil shop.A witchy grocery store.Maybe if he drops Deaton’s name he’ll earn a little discount.

*******

The bar is fairly busy tonight because the owner has set up some kind of a band for entertainment. Stiles spends most of his shift trying to decide if they’re rock or country right up until quitting time when Stiles hauls out the trash to the back alley and (because _really_?) he runs right into someone tall in the near dark.   _Again._  He _really_ needs to avoid alleys if this is how the rest of his life is gonna go.

“Crap!Crap, sorry man!” Says the guy Stiles is trying not to trip over without dropping the flimsy trash bags.But it’s the other guy who steadies Stiles via a grip on shirt and then, like one of the rare normal people Stiles almost never meets these days, the guy stands back and away and keeps apologizing.“Youuuu are only the fifth person I’ve, like, walked into or tripped on lately.Or, actually, today.Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Stiles rasps out while he slows his racing heart.“I’m starting to think alleys are jinxed.”Stiles twists deftly around him and deposits his load, keeping his head low as he treks back up the stairs.The band’s van is parked there and the guy rushes to get to loading the next speakers the drummer hands out to him from the storage bay.The storage bay lights are wimpy, but good enough to tell that ‘apologizing guy’ is the keyboardist.

Popping back out of the van, he smiles shyly and Stiles feels, more than sees himself getting checked out as he strides quickly back up the short stairs and vanishes into the kitchen.  He takes the front door out this time around.

*******

Apparently the band was a hit with the locals and is back two nights later - this time Troy the keyboardist flashes a smile at Stiles from the stage when Stiles comes out to deliver clean glasses to the bar.Stiles was never a big country fan, but he makes sure to pause for just a minute to watch.They aren’t half bad.Neither is Troy, for that matter.Stiles gives a tentative smile back.

When Dan the man(ager)’s nephew comes in a few hours early for quick cash, Stiles figures it’s good karma.He’s finally got the time and just enough money to hit the herb and oil place but the band, on a half-time break, all but trips over him on their own way to the bar.Through laughed apologies, Troy manages to trip again and lets Stiles be the one to steady him, this time.With the wink the drummer sends Troy, Stiles is pretty sure it’s not all that coincidental, but finds himself smiling a little shyly back.

“Stiles, right?”This guy’s blond and cute and has an eyebrow piercing Stiles hadn’t noticed before and raises his own questioning brow.Troy shrugs, blushing a little.“I, uh, asked Dan.” 

“Oh,” Stiles mumbles, ridiculously pleased.“And you’re Troy... hey.”

Awkward, because while Stiles may have been propositioned, he’s never been shyly hit on.Or directly hit on.Or aggressively hit on.But, whatever, Troy’s cute and kinda sweet and here.

“Can I?” Troy hitches a thumb toward the bar.“Can I maybe buy you a drink?” 

“Aw, um.Actually, I can’t now, there’s —“ Stiles shakes himself out of it.This guy’s attractive but Stiles _can_ form whole sentences.It’s something he’s been doing for a while now.“You guys are here tomorrow night, right?One day rain check, maybe?”Stiles knows he’s blushing too and is oddly glad he still can.

Troy smiles, (neat white teeth not pointy and eyes not dark and twisty at all,) and nods.“Tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods.  “Yeah, tomorrow.”Troy vanishes into the crowd with another flash of a smile and Stiles hurries out.

*******

Stiles is five feet from the jeep when he feels it - an odd humming just under his skin and another one of those compulsions that says ‘walk’.Stiles walks, because while his survival instincts might be shot when it comes to feral werewolves, this one feels more important, somehow.

Dusk seems to be falling early, or maybe he’s walked longer than he intended to because the street lights are switching on and the hum of his skin amps up to a buzz.

But there’s nothing out here to see.The stores all look closed.The traffic lights still change on their timer, but the usual ‘click’ of the colors switching is muted and dull.The air feels heavy and if not for the obvious dim street lamps on, he’d wonder if he hadn’t hopped entire realities or something and landed somewhere in the Langolire dimension. 

Not the best thought to have on an empty street when you’re already creeped out but something here is very, _very_ wrong.

He’s not expecting golden wolf eyes in the shadow of a building, but he’s stupidly grateful not to be alone before remembering he should be stupidly _wary_.But the eyes look terrified rather than angry and dart backward when he sets a foot in their direction.

“Can you hear my heart?” He whispers and watches the eyes widen, then nod.“I mean you no harm if you mean none to me.” 

The eyes tilt and he knows the head they’re in is doing that funny ‘confused puppy’ thing.“There’s something dark out here — something dangerous, even to you.You should go, anywhere the lights are bright.I don’t think it’s strong enough to withstand the light yet.” 

His inner middle-schooler is laughing his little ass of at the thought of him lecturing a set of disembodied eyes, regardless of species, but he turns away, advice given, and squints back out into the growing shadows.Then he _hears_ it.It sounds wet.It sounds _ugly_.The street lamps a block away fade, then flicker, then die.

“Ooookay,” he chokes out, a little breathlessly.“That sucks.”Oh, lovely, he’s rekindled his habit of stating the obvious.He stumbles back, checks the street corner signs to try to reorient himself, sees those golden eyes frozen wide in paralyzed horror and rushes over, belatedly seeing how very tiny she must be.It’s a her - a teenager, maybe, and she looks close to wetting herself. (Not that Stiles would blame her, at _all_.)He grabs for both her trembling, clawed hands and forces her to turn away and face him. 

“Don’t look, dumb as that sounds.Looking makes you freeze.You _cannot_ freeze with that thing around.Got it?”

He must sound authoritative enough because she nods and grabs for his hand again when he lets hers go.

“Which way to Kinter Street from here, do you know?”He snaps, hurrying away from the oily noise. 

“Uhh.... um.” She swallows hard then nods, pointing. “Two blocks straight, three blocks left.”

“Okay.My jeep’s there, if you want a lift.I know you don’t know me, but, seriously?You could tear me to pieces if you needed to.I’m going to the Denny’s at the edge of town if you’d like to go.”

She nods again and they run, because the dark is now chasing.

*******

At some point in the jeep, she’d sent a text.That, at least, explains why he’s being wolf-handled up against his beloved jeep by yet _another_ set of golden eyes, these ones positively _furious_.Maybe that crystal works after all because the guy seems very confused and way more suspicious when his claws just vanish once’s they’re in Stiles’ personal bubble.

“Brett, no!Arrrgh, _freaking brothers_.”

The tiny one grabs ahold of the guy’s arm to pull him back and _brother_?Dude’s like six foot five and curlier than Isaac.She’s like four foot five and a mini punk with one pink and one green streak in her hair.He lets his eyes swivel back and forth between them for a second and then over to the brightly lit entrance of the restaurant and sighs.

“Brett,” she hisses, flustered.“I think I’d be dead right now if he hadn’t shown up.”Brett frowns down at her in obvious disbelief.  Stiles would be insulted if he hadn’t accidentally caught sight of himself in the mirror earlier today.  While he doesn’t look like a starving junkie anymore, visually, he hardly qualifies as ‘superhero’ either.

“Once I saw it?  Heard it?” she chokes out, “I couldn’t move.I couldn’t move _at all_.”She’s crying now, fat little tears of whiplashed emotions and Stiles’ feet finally reach the pavement again when big brother gathers her up, looking sufficiently freaked out himself.“He made me look away,” she tells his shirt as she clings to him.“And we ran.”

And at _that_  unnerving reminder, Stiles will still feel better inside with more lights, whatever these two choose to do.  He locks the jeep up and veers around them, heading for the entrance.A minute after he’s got his menu, they slide into the opposite bench of the booth to join him.He glances at him, then her, then pointedly down at his menu.

“Rumor has it chocolate fixes everything,” he says carefully.None of them really speak again until the hot fudge sundaes come back.Stiles eats the fudge first, knowing he’ll never be able to finish the whole thing, even if he has been feeling a little hungrier today.

“You’re not a hunter,” Brett says, frowning and white-knuckle gripping his spoon.  “But you know about us.”

Stiles nods and takes another slow, delicious bite.A quiet minute goes by.

“Well?” Brett says, a little louder, like Stiles is hard of hearing.

Stiles just stares at him until Brett flinches, probably just having been kicked by his sister under the table.

“Was there a question?”He’s a little saddened that his ramble of old has finally passed on.It only took the destruction of Titanic-sized chunks of his life to accomplish it.

“ _How_ do you know about us?”

“Ah.Well, Beacon Hills is lousy with ‘wolves,” he says, recalling Cora, the latest Hale addition.  Then he thinks on that for a second, his own head tilting a bit.“Well, more now than five years ago.”He shrugs.“And I know Alan Deaton.”

And, _huh_.Apparently Deaton’s got street cred because they simultaneously relax, their held breaths whooshing out with an air of relief.   Stiles doesn’t comment on it.

“Do you know what that.... _thing_ was?” The girl asks, quiet and serious.“Because you seem to know something, which is more than we do.”

Stiles drops his gaze to the table, his napkin, his useless fork and butter knife then rubs his eyes hard.“I’m guessing you two are newly back in town or something?”

“Yeah,” Brett admits, still looking a little pensive.  “Spent a few months with our grandmother in Washington.The bus got here early but our phones weren’t working to call for a ride.How long has that...  _thing_  been here?And _what is it?_ ”

Stiles shakes his head.“It’s been here a few months, I think, but it’s effecting people at different rates, maybe? It’s like an infection, or something.Don’t know what it is, exactly, or what caused it yet.”He’s still got that vague buzz under his skin, but it’s been growing weaker since they came inside.He peers out the window, glad to still see the bright lights of the freeway and the steady stream of traffic that never really ends.

“For me, I feel a little better surrounded by mountain ash.Avoid any place where shadows are thick, or where the air feels heavy and muted, I guess.” 

He digs out his wallet and leaves a precious twenty on the table and moves to slide out.“If you guys happen to get more info, pass it on to Deaton, will you?”Brett nods, looking almost Derek-levels of constipated and the girl looks uneasy again, biting her lip nervously.  Stiles pauses, mentally kicking both himself and his inner humanitarian (wolfitarian?).“You guys need a lift somewhere?”

“Yes please,” Brett bursts out, though quietly and relaxes again.

“‘Kay,” Stiles sighs.  “Finish up.I gotta hit the can.”

*******

By the time they get back in the jeep, shuffling aside some of the crap in the backseat to make room for one more, the buzz of the street-eating shadow has diminished to almost nil.  The bus they’d gotten off of had dropped them here in Beacon Trails, but they lived in Beacon Valley, not far from the herb shop.  Possibly good fortune?  Stiles kinda feels like he’s owed just a teeny, tiny bit.  Just this once.

After grabbing their bags from where they’d left them hidden next to a church, they eventually direct him down the road and up a hill.The house here is huge and simple and surrounded by a stone garden with a stream running through it and well-pruned shrubs that collectively look almost ethereal with the tiny fairy lights woven into them.The whole yard whispers peace and tranquility.

“Wow.”He puts on the parking brake, eyes gently led from one serene feature to another to the next before the view is interrupted by none other than the narrowed set of dangerously red eyes of an alpha just beyond where the porch light fades into night.“If I get out, am I going to die?” He asks honestly.Brett’s expression is stoic and unassuming... until little sister Lori starts giggling and just.Won’t.Stop.

“Oooookay,” Stiles huffs with a twitch of lips.  “Both of you out now.Pretty sure your alpha will _glare_ the dark away without my help.”Brett is grinning now.“I’m going shopping, if that herb and oil place is still open.” 

They both shuffle out, bags in hand, looking mildly apologetic but both thank him for the ride, and Brett gives him a chin nod back toward the edge of the garden as he shuts his door. 

The alpha, red eyes serious (but maybe entertained?), is now two feet away from his door, smiling a little.Despite her obvious age, (wisely wrinkled and dark hair liberally streaked with grey,) she still looks like she could take his entire door off with just her pinky claw.He rolls his window down anyway.It’s her house, after all, and there’s no need to be rude.

“They claim to live here,” he says simply.“And I love your garden.”

She smiles a little wider and nods, the red fading from her eyes entirely.

“Thank you.I’ve been working on it for many years.”Her accent is faint, but definitely exotic.She looks Japanese.Stiles isn’t certain he’s seen anyone Japanese in Beacon County pretty much, well, _ever_.“And the shop will be open,” she continues,“if I tell my granddaughter you’re coming by, Mr Stilinski.” 

He actually feels his expression drop to the same empty mask he’s been living under when the chill spills back in.He’s always wanted to say it, and now he can.“It seems you have me at a disadvantage.”

She shrugs, unrepentant, but is still oddly calm and open. She’s like the anti-Derek.

“I watch the news, like many people.Apparently there’s someone who thinks ‘you may have been witness to a crime’ and must be found to ‘assist in the investigation’.Your father looked very distraught.”

Stiles lets his shaky breath out slowly while staring out at the garden, eyes shutting, and hides from the world for just a few seconds.He nods his thanks and kicks the parking break off.She steps closer before he rolls away. 

“And thank you, for bringing them home safely.Alan told me you could be trusted.”She holds a card out, one for the Sereni-Tea, Herb and Oil shop, a phone number scribbled on the back.“I am Satomi Ito.If you find you need sanctuary for a time, or merely a cup of tea, please call.”

He’s stunned enough that she’s halfway back up to the house before he thinks to thank her.

*******

Stiles may just be in love.With a _store_.   Just a half block away from the entry to Satomi’s driveway is this quirky little store that would fit in anywhere on Diagon Alley and obviously has _everything_ he needs.Maybe.Hard to tell, actually, but it seems likely as it’s stuffed to the point of overfull but somehow doesn’t feel cluttered at all. 

There’s tea tables and chairs and samplers of easily half of what’s on the shelves set out everywhere and a short (tiny, really), cute girl of Asian heritage who pops up from behind the counter and is practically vibrating excitement who trips, _twice_ , on her way over to greet him.  She locks the door behind him, flipping the sign to closed all in one move, still bouncing a little bit with energy.

“Oh my God, Hi!Hi.Sorry, I just got the call and now you’re here!You’ve been on TV, I know, I saw the clip and it’s super weird and I reeeeally need to stop talking now because you’re looking reeeeally uncomfortable and, um.Hi,” she says again.“I’m Kira.”She waves, quick-handed up and down before she smiles again, all teeth.

She’s a living, breathing anime character and he smiles back because he can’t _not_.She’s kind of adorable.She’s also like a girly version of himself, a year or two ago.So thaaat’s where his ramble went. 

“Uhh, hey...I’m Stiles,” he counters, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets.

“It’s nice to meet you.And seriously? Browse all you want, because you’re saving me from cleaning more of the basement out and I’m usually here reading everything I can until the wee hours anyway.Unless you have a list.Do you?I can help hunt stuff down, if you do.”

“Oh,” he fumbles, thinking.Well... as long as she doesn’t nab it away and try to read it all before he gets to... He pulls the little book out of his hoodie pocket and sees her eyes alight.“There’s a few things in here I’d love to try, but, honestly... I’m a little short on usable cash.  So, priorities?  The one’s I’d like most-“

“No, no!She didn’t say?Of course not,” Kira rolls her eyes just as quick as she’d waved, shakes her head to boot, “yeesh, Grams.It’s on the house, unless you plan to like, rob us blind, which, yeah no.But, well.Grams has a good feeling?  About you.Or maybe she and Mr. Deaton?Anyway, we never discount her ‘feelings’.If she says give him what he needs, well...” She trails off, maybe unnerved by his sudden stillness.

“That’s, um, like, really nice, but—“ he starts when her words finally trail off.

“It’s not!” She blurts, then rolls her eyes at herself.  “Well, yeah, but no. I mean—Something’s out there,” she says with blunt certainty.Her dramatic switch to serious as hell from quirky anime teen is a little unnerving.“When the local ‘powers that be’ point to a few rare people when the going gets tough to help fix what’s broken, _we listen_.We help those who will help us all.”

Stiles blinks at her, eyebrows raising a little.  Since when did he become one of those rare people?  Deaton, sure, but—

“Not all of us will be heroes, maybe not ever.But I’ll still drag the ammo to the front lines, if it’s all I can do if it means we’re still fighting against what’s coming.I don’t even _know_ what’s coming, but I can _feel_ it.I think everyone can, by now.Without the ammo, we lose the battle.”She maybe sees his obvious disbelief and takes a deep calming breath, her eyes closing briefly.When they open, he _sees_. 

She glows, not just her fiery orange eyes, but _her_.A warrior and a peacekeeper and so obvious he can feel it in his _bones_.  When she blinks again, it fades.“So?Let’s get you some ammo, soldier.”

He thinks, weirdly, he might just be a little in love with her, too.How the hell is this his life?

*******

An hour and a half later, Stiles knows two things.  One, he’s not in love with Kira because she’s the little sister he never knew he wanted, and two: he’s got a lot of ammo.  He’s stuck staring at the sizable pile of it amassed on the counter.

“I feel like a robber,” he tells Kira, who’s clearly just trying not to laugh at him.  But it’s a lot of stuff, now that it’s all in one spot.But they’d hunted down everything he’d wanted first and then an old well-worn book just _falls_ , somehow, off an impossibly high shelf and lands an inch from his toes, sprawled open to a page about soothing balance and potions of peace and healing sleep.They’d both stared at it, then at each other, then back down at the book again.

“Huh,” she’d said, then shrugged, bending to scoop it up.“Hadn’t thought the powers that be were quite so hands-on.... my bad.” 

They’d found a dozen more spells and potions in that one, including one that worked like mountain ash, except on humans.That one could, very cautiously, be useful.So could the ones for masking scents and enhancing one’s senses.Also?One for being _unseen_.Not invisibility, persay, but more like people’s sight and perception would just unconsciously skip right past you.Too.Frickin’.   _Cool_. 

Stiles insists on paying for the book.After a five minute staring match, she finally lets him, but vanishes into the basement and comes back with a large, old fashioned metal tool box he could use to help organize all his ingredients.

“It was in the trash pile.You’re NOT paying,” she declares, eyes glowing a little orange again.  He _does_  pay for two dozen lidded glass jars and labeling stickers, though.

“So you’re good at this... magic stuff?”It’s honest curiosity and coming from Kira, it doesn’t feel like prying.

“I don’t know yet?  Deaton seems to see something in me, though, so...” He shrugs and winces a little and he hopes _she_ doesn’t go peeking into his aura the way he thinks Deaton maybe had.“But I think I will be, with enough practice?” 

He hopes so, for so many reasons.  He’d miss this place if the dark ate it all, because Melissa was right.It’s home.Nothing has the right to eat his home or anyone in it.

She nods, plucking dried Ukrainian mulberries from the stem and sorting them into a new bottle.They were nearly done and it was almost 1am.It feels like later.But he’s wishing her a good night forty minutes after that with a promise (the third one) to call her to check in, or swing by to just read, or if he’s just bored.Whatever reason, really.  And he might, he thinks.It’d be nice to have one magical-ish confidante who isn’t a super-secretive Druid.He’s pulling away from the shop and down the street when he checks the rear-view mirror and she’s leaning out the door, but mostly he just sees the fiery fox aura with a sword in it’s hand.He heads back to the campground.

*******

Okay, he’d _meant_ to head back to the campground.  Honestly.  So how he ended up at a closed-up bar he doesn’t recognize in a part of town he’s never seen is a total mystery.  He gets out, the hand in his hoody pocket tight around his taser.  There’s no oily buzz under his skin, or at least not much, but it’s three am now and something’s off.  Obviously.

He closes the car door and waits.The ‘enhanced senses’ thing would probably be helpful right about now, but clearly the sixth sense he didn’t even know existed two months ago is working overtime this month.It’s not the bar, but the dim light in the second-story window above it.

There’s a single rickety metal staircase that leads to the door and beyond the door is a room and in that room is Peter, unconscious and tied to a chair and bleeding from a half dozen places and _not healing_.   _Fuck_.

He calls Deaton first but his cell goes straight to voicemail.He tries the vet clinic on a hopeful whim, with no answer.He wrestles an unconscious and entirely too-heavy, bloody, injured werewolf into his Jeep and heads toward the loft.He texts Cora.Twice.And then a third time.  Then he groans aloud and calls instead.

Predictably, like the Hale she is, she answers growling.“Found him,” he says when she’s done cursing.“Meet me downstairs,” he says and then hangs up.Well, a year straight hanging with Derek has taught him something about getting people in reluctant motion.Maybe didn’t teach him _enough_ , though, if he seriously thought Cora would be the _only_ one to hear that call.

Derek’s almost vibrating, he’s so twitchy, and he’s so ‘ _off’_ , visibly switching from enraged red-eyed alpha to concerned green-eyed nephew that it honestly concerns Stiles for all of ten seconds.Then Stiles’ back, _again_ , meets the flat side of his jeep.  _For the second time tonight_.   A tired-looking Isaac appears at his elbow, whining low but loud to Derek, a canine pleading noise that isn’t helping anything at all.

Stiles is kinda — well no, actually.  He’s _beyond_ done for the day.Because his day started twenty-two hours ago and he’s been enjoying catching a few hours sleep per day, nightmarish or not.

“Derek, would you like to guess the number of stitches I have in my back that you just ripped right the fuck open again?”He’s impressed himself with the sheer amount of steel in his voice.And the audible growl beneath it.

Derek’s eyes flicker red, like a broken neon sign, one last time before he’s suddenly fifteen feet back, eyes green and wide, all horrified guilt, with fists clenched at his sides and poor Isaac is just stuck in place between them, uncertain.Stiles decides to talk to the air, instead. 

“Don’t know how I found him, honestly.But he was in the Valley above a bar, tied to a chair and he’s not healing and hasn’t woken.Deaton didn’t answer when I called, so here he is.”Cora, though not small, looks odd holding most of Peter’s weight while she hauls him carefully out of the jeep.Isaac rushes to help, still looking afraid for everyone present and Cora nods gratefully to Stiles as they maneuver Peter gently into the building. 

Derek hasn’t moved yet, but there’s blood dripping down from his fists to the pavement under his feet.Stiles lets the arctic cold grip him solid again when he strides right up to him, then _keeps going_  until it’s _Derek_ backed up against a wall with Stiles’ uncompromising gaze keeping him pinned there.

“I’d love to say that I officially don’t care what the fuck your problem is, but as it stands right now, there’s obviously a chance whatever it is will get innocent people killed — maybe even people I care about.”He leans a little closer to Derek, makes sure to catch his gaze.“More likely it’ll be people _you_ care about.”   Then he leans back again and sighs a tiny sigh.  Derek, up close, looks a little like that guy Stiles saw in his own hallway - thin and weak and sick.

“The only thing that seems to get me more than three nightmare-filled hours of sleep at a time is surrounding myself in mountain ash and preferably close to the ground, I think.It’s probably the only reason I’m still sane.So find someone you trust, find someplace non-flammable, ‘cause I know you have issues, and get some sleep before you wake up in the middle of a bloodbath of your _own fucking making_.”He stares at Derek, motionless, until Derek finally nods once, his jaw tight.Stiles is back at the Jeep when the obvious occurs to him, now that he finally has Derek’s full attention.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” he says quietly.Stiles sees Derek wilt a little as he drives off, but he’s seriously too tired and too done now to care.

***********


	4. Filler. (With plot.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filler plot and PWP

Magic is _awesome_.Stiles would probably say that even if it wasn’t real.Or real, but not useful.But it’s both real _and_ useful, even if he’s got no clue how it’s done.He tells Deaton as much while the good doctor is plucking the last of the un-dissolved, and now _unnecessary_ , stitches from his completely healed back a mere five days after they went in.There’s scarring, of course, but who the fuck cares?He’ll live, if he manages to survive this town.Deaton raises a Hale-like eyebrow at that, but he’s trying not to smile.Stiles can tell. 

So Stiles tells him about the dark crawling down the street, and the siblings, and Satomi (which he already knew), and about Kira and the shop and the mysteriously falling book and the fiery fox in the doorway (Deaton’s brows raise a little) and then about somehow finding Peter (brows drop, uncomfortable and maybe unsettled) and calling Deaton’s usual numbers (brows look remorseful) and finally the showdown at the loft.Deaton’s eyebrows stop talking when Deaton, himself, starts.

“His eyes were _flickering_?”

“Like a broken neon sign,” Stiles reiterates, pulling his shirt back on and helps Deaton gather up the few stray stitches.“It was super-weird, even by Beacon standards.And that’s coming from someone who saw a whole street being eaten by pure darkness.It’s back though.The street.I checked.”

“Hm.”

“There’s odd spots around on it though, like oil spots?Except I can really only see them out of the corner of my eye.  But it’s like the street’s tainted... or stained.”  There’s no good description for what it looked like - except _wrong._ But no one else seemed to see it but him.  Which, now that he thinks on that statement, not only says more about him than them, but pretty much depicts his last few months entirely.

Stiles eyes Deaton more seriously.“Will the ash work on werewolves, do you think?For sleep?”Stiles shouldn’t care.Really.

“It just may.If, that is, Derek lets someone do it.” Deaton muses, brows a tiny bit furrowed.

Ah.So, not likely then. Seems Derek’s issues really might well and truly kill him in the end.  Stiles is suddenly trying very hard not to notice the well of emotions that comes with that possibility.

Deaton seems to be chewing on another thought, so Stiles stalls a little by picking invisible debris off his hoody before he tugs it back on.Finally, “It may be more about who lays the ash, honestly,” Deaton says, his voice it’s usual neutral.  “And you, yourself, have a certain... resonance, a sort of energy about you.One that makes others around you steadier, better grounded maybe, in some respects.More so, I believe, with regular frequency.I think it was that resonance, more than Derek’s will, that had him calming last night.”

Stiles stares for a second, swallowing hard and honestly trying _not_ to think through the implications of that statement.He nods his acknowledgement, then mentally shakes it off.There’s things that need doing today and worrying about his ‘resonance’ is near the bottom of the list.Nope, things to do like work, and maybe having a drink with a cute guy.   And also, like figuring out what to do about his father.

Like the mind reader he just might be, Deaton asks. “Do you know what you’ll do about your father yet?”And really, does no one fail to watch the news these days?

“Nope.Blackmail might work though,” he muses.  And really, it could.

Deaton just frowns at him, looking somewhat unimpressed.

Stiles huffs.  “I’m 18, so he can’t force me back to his house and he knows it.If he tries to have me brought in for questioning about a crime I may have witnessed, I’ll ask, very loudly and publicly if he’s referring the video my laptop camera recorded about who attacked me in my bedroom.But that’s, like, _worse-case_ scenario.”

Deaton actually frowns harder.From Deaton, it’s an upsetting amount of frown.“But that wasn’t all him.You know that.”

Stiles huffs, a little darkly.“Yeah, but the dark didn’t make him start drinking again.That _was_ all him.”

“Still, his actions—“

Stiles cuts him off with the open honesty never before spoken.And never will be again, if he has his say.

“You just plucked the remains of his actions out of my back.His actions were his.I don’t think the dark can make us do anything we’re not already capable of, on some level — maybe just... amplify the potential for it; like grumpy becomes angry, worried becomes paranoid, things like that.And the dark is a recent thing, I’m sure of it.  _I feel it._ ” 

He stares at the shiny metal of the exam table and barrels on, his mouth desert-dry.“So it didn’t make him start drinking again two years ago.”Our of the corner of his eye, he sees Deaton still from where he’s now wiping a spotless counter down.“Or the year before that.Or two years before that.”Deep breath.“It may have amped up the violence level, but the dark didn’t put it there.”The silence is heavier, somehow, when Deaton bows his head.

“ _So._ I need to go register for school, sans parent.And for that, I maybe need to mix me a batch of ‘seen/unseen’ and maybe hunt down a four leaf clover.If we survive this oily, evil... dark... shadow-nightmare thing, I’d eventually like to graduate.Preferably early, but,” shrug, “still.”He sees Deaton nod.

“Don’t suppose you have any liquid luck lying around, do you?” Stiles queries, only half joking.

Deaton actually _snorts_ , then looks away when he clears his throat.

“Alas, no,” Deaton replies, (sounding like he’s holding in a small laugh) and Stiles shrugs his disappointment with a put-upon sigh and heads for the exit.Then from behind him:“I believe I left it in my other cloak.

“Back at Hogwarts.”

Stiles snickers all the way out the door.

*************

Stiles’ short lunch shift at the grill kills his sleepy-yet-mildly-happy streak, since the band had called to cancel, having caught some bug, last minute.Dan shrugs it off, looking a little under the weather himself.“They’ll be back next week.” 

Stiles’ nightmares begin to flare up again.He doubts his are the only ones.

*************

Neither Diner nor Grill needs his help after noon two days later, so Stiles, finally eating a bit more, scrounged up a bit of extra energy to jog around the campground and buy a dollar’s worth of verrrry bitter lemonade from one of the camper’s kids who set up a mini-stand near the main drive.He doesn’t remember being that cute at five, but he vaguely remembers the enthusiasm. 

He jogs on, grabs a shower (which is always weirdly (blessedly) empty when he’s there) and tries out a few more potions for things like the seen/unseen, mental clarity, one for hiding one’s scent and heartbeat (that feels like it’ll be useful sooner rather than later), and other basics - but stalls hard on one for memory recollection.Just as clear as the mojo-instinct is, this feels similar, except more like a warning - a rather jarring warning that doesn’t give up until he’s packed _all_ the magic supplies away and stored them back in the jeep.

 _That_ was a first.He kind of hopes it’s the last, too, at least for the potion-style stuffs.It felt like the mental and magical equivalent of the invisible man standing ten feet behind him screaming to not put his hand in the fire.Weird.

Whatever is whatever, but he still feels a little off-center, so heads out to the local farmer’s market / flea market to get healthy foods and anything else that’s potentially useful he didn’t know he needed.It doesn’t take him long to regret it, when he sees Boyd’s large shoulders vanishing behind the stall he’d just visited.Okay, so, those shoulders _could_ belong to another guy, but Stiles doesn’t think so. 

Stupidly, he tugs his beanie a little lower on his head and puts his shades back on. (Like that’ll stop them sniffing him out?) He mentally activates his scent-hiding potion, just in case.But he’s almost forgotten about it again while picking out some cheap kiwi and feels the heavy gaze of someone’s eyes practically piercing straight through him, but a quick scan of the crowd shows nothing out of the ordinary.Oooookaaay.Unsettling, a little, even in full daylight.

He’s finally considering activating his ‘seen/unseen’ potion when he feels a different kind of attention.Flicking his eyes left, the shy-looking college-aged redhead with an adorable goatee and a truly phenomenal ass is giving him a slow look up and down from the corner of his eye.At this, Stiles’ lips twitch into a vaguely interested casual smile but when he turns to give the guy a ‘yeah, I see you gorgeous’ look of his own, cute guy’s girlfriend shows to drag him off.Awww. 

He’s distracted enough that he practically trips over an unmanned, abandoned cart in the middle of the lane and only _Peter’s_ quick reflexes keep him upright.Weirdly, the ice in his chest doesn’t actually freeze solid straight away and Peter’s eyes look honest and kind when he mouths the words ‘thank you’ and then vanishes into the crowd.

Stiles is chillier (due to proximity?), and now, seeing a cagey-looking Isaac four stands ahead, Stiles follows Peter’s fine example - he ducks into the crowd, mentally activates his unseen potion, and disappears.

He’s got no idea what this is about (but the stalking thing is a little worrying and more than a little infuriating) — which means it’s probably better to cut and run.  At least now he knows how well the seen/unseen works.   _Very well_ , he realizes a moment later, as he walks right past a confused-looking and oblivious Erica where she’s apparently posted at the parking lot entry, and doesn’t look back.

*************

He spends the rest of the day at the tea shop with Kira, browsing through the shop’s library and inventing names for all the ‘ammo’ he’d made so far.(Kira had already baptized the restorative as ‘Mojo Juice.’)  All Stiles’ suggestions fall flat enough he knows when to fold.  Meh, they’ll probably name themselves, given enough time.

The only thing that really mars the day (beyond clearly getting stalked by the pack) was the faint feel of the oily shadow under his jeep when he finally left the shop that evening, but thankfully felt that it was gone by the time he hit the main road.Still, he doesn’t sleep well that night.

*************

Stiles isn’t needed at either Diner or Grill the next evening, which sucks because money is good and he needs more.He’s not big on the idea of deliberately finding some dude and robbing him via his dick, (not that he’d ever suggest it,) but that itch for something dark and dangerous is absolutely back and he _needs_. 

He’s got no clue what, exactly, he needs but it’s a hunger of a different kind that started at the market yesterday and has him leaving the campground just past sunset in skinny jeans that are thankfully no longer loose on him and a tight red shirt.The grill of the Jeep may as well be a divining rod that points the way to a vaguely familiar warehouse full of music and lights and flesh and the absolute wild of the Jungle.

He slips in unseen and feels good and right and alive with the base of the music thudding against his skin. Through the haze of chemical fog and the press of too many bodies sliding together he sees Danny giving him a surprised but heavy-lidded look but yyy- _no._ Just... _hell no,_ because it’s Danny and while he’s gorgeous and overall boy-next-door kind of great, he’s also someone Stiles will see in school _every_  day.  Worse, he’s also Jackass’s best friend and that’s just too weird and too few points of separation for Stiles’ peace of mind.

From one breath to the next he melts into the pulsating mass of the dance floor and hell yeah, maybe ‘twink’ is a good look on him after all because it takes all of thirty seconds to be somewhat pinned and grinding against some nameless somebody that gorgeous and firm and eyes drifting closed, Stiles practically loses himself to the rhythm beating fast and hard in time with his heart.

‘Somewhat’ pinned turns into definitely pinned (in a _fantastic_ way) when a hand slinks around his waist under his shirt in a flirty questioning way and then digs in just enough to catch his breath before it yanks him back against— _oh._    Stiles’ mouth drops open a little at the sizable interest grinding _just right_ , against his ass. 

The guy in front’s not moving away but ghosts his lipsfrom the corner of his mouth down his jaw before it licks, quick and light and wet up his neck to catch Stiles’ earlobe between his teeth.Stiles moans, a guttural sound lost in the fog and chokes on the noise when front guy grinds an _equal_ amount of interest against his groin. 

Stiles _doesn’t_ spill a mess into his pants on the spot but it’s a near thing.His ear’s set free enough to hear “What do you think?Should we take him home?”

He’s not so far gone that he can’t grind his own words out.“Not going home with anybody, dude.Deal with it.”

Turns out guy in front has eyes the color of soft denim, as heavy-lidded as his own and a smirk that’s seventy-five percent made of sex.“Wasn’t talking to you,” he murmurs and huh?

“Home’s too far,” says the other... wait.No.No, that’s the _same fucking voice._ “Motel down the block?”

And when Stiles turns to look he’s only got time for a flash those same denim-colored eyes before a hand grips his hair (thank _god_  he grew it out) and yanks him into a kiss so hot he breaks into a sweat of the ‘hell yes’ variety, a slick tongue pulsing against his to match the grinding against his ass.

They come up for air gasping, Stiles a little more maybe because the one in front is nipping teasingly at his neck and it’s making Stiles’ knees weak.But it doesn’t distract from the ray of disco light that flashes against the other one’s eyes. And the sheen is greenish-gold. _Shifter_ greenish-gold, then denim again. 

Hell. Fucking. Yes.He _wants_. 

Well, you only live once, right?

His breath shudders out with the words.“Motel’s good.”They smile, sharp and a little dangerous in unison, which should be weird but isn’t.“But... no teeth, no claws, no questions, and no mocking if I don’t last longer than thirty seconds the first round.” 

He wonders if his eyes look as surprised and heated and hungry as theirs do.

*************

Stiles now feels like the shameless slut he might actually be, in the _best_ possible fucking way.They could’ve teleported here for all he knows but it’s probably like every other motel room anywhere except it likely rents by the hour.

“Not even gonna ask our names?” He hears after he’s pressed deliciously against the inside of the door with a hard groin, once again, grinding against his ass.He’d thought they were on the same page he was, but...

“Kinda hoping my mouth will be too full to bother screaming one out, honestly.”The room’s dim, but not dark and he’s glad.He’s not up for twisted warping shadows tonight.“Unless you wanted me to send you flowers after, in which case you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Fuck,” is muttered like a growl in his ear while a hand wedges in between the door and his dick and gets his fly open but the guy’s being borderline _gentle_ and Stiles needs to get them back on his mental track.

“I won’t break, asshole.Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m fucking delicate.Rough is good.Teeth are good, if they’re not pointy. Just because I don’t want to be able to scream a name doesn’t mean I don’t want a reason to scream at all and unless you two intend to let me _talk_ you to death I’d recommend you maybe find a way to _shut me up—“_

And that’s what it took, apparently, because now he’s on the bed (yessss), on his knees with three fingers holding his tongue in place while someone yanks his pants down and palms his ass through his boxers and it feels terrifying and fantastic all at once and they’re quick learners, especially once they learn his cues.He trembles with a tiny bit of shame when hands dive up under his shirt before he can protest and maybe finds more scars than they’d have expected on ‘average joe’.

“Looks like he does like it a little rough,” and the voice sounds as excited as Stiles feels, but the clothes stay on, which he appreciates, even while both their shirts come off and that’s just a nice view.Very, _very_ nice.But his jeans don’t go lower than his lower thighs (slutty and dirty in the _best_ way) and those same fingers are soaked with his spit when his ass cheek gets pushed aside and that slick is cool against his pucker.

He’s got no idea what to expect here because until he’d started having some rather embarrassing wet dreams about someone hard-bodied and growly and smelling of leather and ash and forest rutting up against his ass five months ago, he hadn’t even realized he _was_  that into guys.He definitely knows it now.

He’s distracted from the awkward slippery fullness tucking in and shifting and spreading before adding another tight finger by his face cheeks being gripped firm by a wide hand and his face lifted to see the twin in front of him perched up on his own knees. This one releases Stiles’ face and makes sure he watches when the button of his jeans pops and the zipper sliiiiiiides down and Stiles is swaying forward before tight fingers in his hair halts him.He whines, but softly, startling himself.

“Fuck, you’re just desperate for it, aren’t you?”It’s a little mean and mocking (and it’s a little perfect) but he nods, his (desperate and hungry) lips parting a bit because he craves it.A lot.“That’s what I noticed first in the club.You’re cute, for a guy, but your mouth... fuck.I had to taste those lips, one way or another.Hell, I’m ninety percent straight and I seriously can’t resist.”A thumb, thick and hot presses past Stiles’ lips to rest on his tongue but now Stiles is only half listening because that beautiful dick is being unveiled one denim-covered inch a time and _yes please._  

“Wolves don’t carry diseases, ya know.Will I need a rubber?”He must shake his head no and, well.Condoms are gonna suck after this (no pun intended), probably, and not in the orgasm-inducing way, because dick tastes weird, but in a nice way. 

He’s immobilized by the hand still tight in his hair and that fantastic cock being _fed_ to him, the guy’s other hand pressing his jaw down and it’s fucking perfect because it’d be hard to move his head without losing some hair for his troubles and he has no fucking control over how much he gets unless he finds a way to say it without words. 

He whines again, and again totally on accident but he hopes it moves the show along — but no.They both freeze with only two thick inches settling on his tongue and the three fingers in his ass that are deliberately avoiding his prostate.He’s trembling with how close he is to begging.

“Ohhhh,” says the one behind him in a thick shaky way.“He wants to beg for it.”Fucking mind-reading werewolves now???

“That can be arranged,” says the one above him wickedly.

“Oh, for the love of—“ Stiles snaps out when all the good bits are just suddenly _gone_ except he’s on his back now and there’s more fingers in his mouth (thankfully clean ones) and he’s maybe glaring a little and tempted to bite them - the snarled out voice and narrowed, dangerous eyes above him remind him that’s a baaaad idea.

“Don’t even think about it, bitch.You wanna beg, we’ll make you beg, but personally?I think you’ve maybe forgotten that while you may not be fragile, but you _are_ still human.”

A second later Stiles’ wrists are trapped under heavy knees and the guy’s grinning down at him with a sharp smile and the sound of a condom unwrapping startles Stiles into looking downward.

The other twin is twisting the condom up into a long flexible rope before it gets wrapped — well, Stiles’ brain short-circuits for a minute and then he whines for real, loud and embarrassing because it’s been tied tight around the base of his dick. 

“Well,” says the one pinning his thighs to the bed to keep Stiles from squirming while he’s grinning at the makeshift cock ring, “now you don’t have to worry about the thirty second mockery.”His eyes shift to up Stiles’ and get serious.“But you’ll behave now, right?So we’ll at least _let_ you come tonight?” Even with three thick fingers in his mouth he arches his back with a wanton, pleading moan and a hearty head nod when a slippery thumb rubs slowwwwly from the base of his dick to the head before it vanishes, leaving him shivering from just that one touch.“Good boy,” he says.

 _Fuck_ , he didn’t know this scenario was _on_ his kinky bucket list til thirty seconds ago but he’s putting it on and checking it off all in a single night.The idea of restraint and suffering on a cock or two?Yeah, this — yeah, it’s too mouth-watering to pass up.  What sane person would?

And that’s how Stiles finds himself back on his knees just lapping at the head of a cock he can’t quite reach with fingers fisted in his hair (which is all that’s keeping him from falling on his face) while he spreads his own ass cheeks like a whore so the world’s fattest cock (feels like) can drive slowly into his ass as deep as it’ll go and his own dick is probably turning interesting colors from it’s inability to do anything else.

“Easy now,” says the one behind him, all gentle and commanding.“Just relax that tight little ass.Open up for me and take it.We won’t leave you hanging.Well,” he corrects with a wicked tone, “not _all_ night.”

“Hands on the bed, now.Now,” the other guy repeats sharply when Stiles is too sex drunk to hurry.A firm hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip keeps him still while that achingly delicious weight in his ass pulls out slow, almost all the way then a sharp yank on his shoulder drives it back in a little painfully but just right.The cock that’s being fed into his mouth isn’t quite enough to a muffle his surprised and delighted groaning scream.The twin in front just keeps fucking _talking_.Stiles is going to die from dirty talk, a fantastic dick in his ass and a teenage libido.At least he’d go out well, he thinks.

“Don’t close your lips yet, just open wide.”Another hair yank and he’s got his neck stretching back as far as possible and now he has to watch, watch the guy panting and straining not to just make Stiles swallow the whole cock in one gulp.“Wanna see it pressing into your throat, hot and tight.Get that tongue out, show me how much that vice of your throat needs my cock in it.Good, so good, that’s it, now close those lips tight, as tight as you can.”Fuck, this _actually_ exists outside of porn and he’s gettin’ it, harder and harder with every thrust until his eyes roll back while his whole body starts to shiver.

It’s SO. FUCKING. PERFECT.  It’s _exactly_  what he’s needed and they work him, hard, until his face is flushed and sweaty, his lower ass cheeks are rubbed raw from the zipper teeth of rear twin’s jeans and Stiles’ throat is sore and there might be tears in his eyes because his balls fucking _ache_.They’re all three steadily losing their rhythm and fuck, then this’ll be over.Maybe he should get their names?

That thought flies out of his head when rear guy grunts out a ‘fuckit’ and pulls out to cum hard right over and into his swollen, gaping hole and then fucks all that heat right back in and Stiles moans, his overstimulated shivering that amps up to trembling with the need to just cum and cum and maybe never stop. 

The cock in his throat is gone and a sharp quick slap to the facebrings his eyes back into focus and those eyes are glowing with a dark tinted red along with a demand to know if he can hear him.Stiles nods but this guy’s already moving in behind, shoves in where his brother had just fucking been ( _whoa_ ) and tips Stiles back onto his lap and onto his cock. The condom comes off a second later and Stiles needs no instructions.

“Please, jesus, pleasepleaseplease, fuck!”

He hadn’t expected a tight burning-hot mouth to actually _suck_ his orgasm out, but it does exactly that.And it just keeps going until he’s whining with ‘too much, too much’ before the dick still in his ass rocks sharply into his prostate over and over and over til Stiles comes _again,_ holy hell. 

And _still_ , he’s trembling so hard his muscles ache but the one guy still burried in his ass is holding him tight and steady with the not-all-that-comforting promise of ‘one more, give us just one more.’And he does, but it _hurts_ , and it’s heaven and hell all in one before the dick still inside throbs and stabs in again and again while a low wolffish growl vibrates out against the nape of his neck. 

He’s tipped forward onto the somewhat stinky and probably sticky bedspread, gasping and shivering with his ass and his dick just hanging out, thoroughly and perfectly and _amazingly_ used.A minute later he’s been nudged onto his side, top leg lifted (the recovery position his brain lazily provides), and the twins are fixing their own pants and donning shirts.

One leans down, eyes glowing deep and red and bright, but his expression is kind and kinky and satisfied as he runs a soft finger down the edge of Stiles’ jaw.“Good boy,” he murmurs with a wink, and then they’re gone, door clicking shut behind them.

Stiles is trying to both catch his breath and decide if he feels bad about this.Fantastically slutty?Check.Deliciously dirty?Check.Slightly subby?Double-check.A gleefully (sometimes) dirty hooker who isn’t?Check.And damned if he knows why he gets off on this sort of use me, abuse, me, control me shit, but right now he’s too sated to complain. 

Also?How many alpha’s does this county even have? 

Maybe Deaton knows.

He finds five hundred dollars on the bathroom counter with ‘Cab money’ written on the top.Hm.Okay then.Whatever; at least the craving-itch is gone.

 


	5. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few harsh truths.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for violent imagery (memory) and the sheriff being a momentary dick.

************

Stiles forgets to ask Deaton about the resident alpha population, but he’s been busy with fun-time magics.

The great thing about the potion for hiding one’s scent, heartbeat, maybe even respiratory rate (the book was a little unclear there) was that it could be a permanent amulet thing, (most of his potions can, _Hell Yeah_ ) when added to the best base material (wood, stone, bone, etc.)  Stiles, being somewhat magically lucky of late, gets it right the first try.  

According to Deaton, that in itself is almost an improbably lucky thing to happen when they discuss it a mere two days after his oh, OH so memorable night at the club.

“On the first try?” Deaton asks, a doubtful eyebrow lifted.

“According to Brett, yes.”

“And he would know....”

“I hadn’t drank any for a few days, didn’t really see the point.  But I woke up yesterday after a full five hours of nearly nightmare-free sleep for the first time in three plus months, and felt the need for a hike.  So, I hiked.  Twenty minutes later I found a lightning struck tree, specifically, the branch that fell from the strike. 

So I hauled it back, carved out a good oval chip of it, carved what felt like the right glyph into it, dosed it with the potion and went to see Kira.  Brett was there, teasing her so...”  Stiles grins a little.  “It’s tough to spook a werewolf, but _highly_ entertaining when you can.”

Deaton’s eyebrows say he’s trying not to laugh.  “How do you know you didn’t still have some of the original potion in your system?”  Deaton still seems doubtful.

“When I took it off, his face was priceless.  Apparently, I still smelled like, um.... a good night at the club.”  Stiles refuses to fidget.  Sex is natural.  No shame, kinks aside.

“Ah.” Deaton, despite his calm demeanor, looks mentally fidgety instead.  “And what type of tree was it?”

Some days it’s good to be Stiles. “A rose-blooming northern rowan.”

Deaton’s eyes widen.  A lot.  His mouth opens and closes.   _Twice_.  Then he frowns.  “Those only bloom in early spring.”  He raises a brow, challenging.

Stiles lifts his own brow in retaliation and pulls one of the soft pink and purple blooms out of his hoody pocket and hands it over.  

“Also,” Stiles says, “the tree was pretty large. ie: the branch is very large.  There’s no way I can possibly use it all.  Think you can find a use for the rest of it?”

Deaton stares at the bloom and looks sort of... something.  Soft?

“I hope so,” Stiles continues, “‘cause it’s tied to the roof of the Jeep and I have nowhere to store it otherwise.”

Now Deaton smiles, full and wide.  It’s a pretty rare sight.  “Of course.”  But the way he bows his head to Stiles is clearly respectful and Stiles feels weirdly honored when he nods back.

*************

Scott also finds the branch interesting, largely due to the fact that he can’t seem to get anywhere near the jeep while it’s there.  Stiles kinda wants to laugh at the sight of him basically bouncing back a foot every time he tries, regardless of which angle he tries from, but like a flash flood, the arctic chill rushes back into his chest so quickly it steals his breath and actually chokes him a little, curling him down for a second in pain before the numbness settles. 

Deaton goes from looking a little concerned to sympathetic to his standard neutral face in under two seconds.  Stiles wonders if it’s a skill he’d picked up whenever or if-ever he’d had an experience like the one Stiles has been suffering through.  

Stiles goes unseen before they step outside the clinic, unnoticed by Scott, who’s clearly frustrated while both scowling at the branch and trying in vain to get a good look inside the windows.  Failing miserably is an obvious distraction and he’s grumbling under his breath when Deaton spooks him by clearing his throat.  

While standing right behind him.

Yup, Deaton’s got a little mischief in him.  

“Scott, I’d wondered if you were going to make it in today.”  Deaton’s face is placid, but his tone is mildly annoyed.  “Because you’re late,” Deaton points out.  

Scott has the wide-eyed look of a kid caught chocolate-handed with the sacred cookie jar and stutters out what he probably thinks is an apology.  Deaton’s eyebrows flick up a millimeter.  It’s a neat trick that seems to accept the given while demanding an explanation.

“Uhh, I.... I didn’t know—Did Stiles leave it here?Will he be back for it soon?”

“I’m sure he’ll be back for it, yes.  He brought me a branch.”

Scott’s face is a weird mix of ‘ohhhh’, and ‘huuuuh?’, and oddly, relief? Maybe?  Stiles is confused about the last.

“It’s a good branch,” Deaton informs him.  “And a rare one.”

“Ah,” Scott says with another quick, frustrated look up at the branch.  “Well, I’ll just... go get started.”  Deaton nods and Scott departs, though Stiles can see his shadow in the inner doorway to the exam room, pacing a bit.

“Stiles?” Deaton asks quietly.But Stiles has his magic super senses on now and Scott’s calling, well, someone. 

“Well, he was here, yeah.  His jeep still is, but now that we know where he is—“ The reply is a mumble.  

Damn. Magic super ears not quite good enough to hear the other end of the conversation.  And yet, unfortunately, they’re still good enough so when Deaton clears his throat a teeny bit judgmentally, Stiles flinches.  Very loud throat clear-age.

“Why the hell are they trying to keep tabs on me?”  He asks aloud, rubbing his ear and knows instantly by Deaton’s face that he won’t say.  “It’s fine,” Stiles waves it off.  “Well, not fine they’re trying and failing to stalk me, but.”  He shrugs.  “I wouldn’t ask you to tell me if you can’t.  No big.”  And it’s not.  He can find out for himself, now.  After his lunch shift at the diner, he can counter-stalk them unseen all he likes.

They haul the branch down as carefully as they can to spare the jeep’s paint job and somehow manage to cram it in Deaton’s car instead.  Deaton looks pleased, even with the charred splinters and debris now littering the inside of his Camry.

“I’ll hold it in storage for you,” Deaton says, “if I can use a bit from time to time.”

“Thanks.”  Stiles nods, thawing a little more now.  “I do appreciate it.  But I’ve gotten enough of the stray charred bits and a good two foot long middle branch to keep me busy for a while, I think.”

Deaton frowns a little.  “The charred bits?  For what?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Not a clue yet.  But it’s the same mojo-instinct that led me to the tree, so...” He shrugs again, then remembers the question he keeps forgetting to ask.  “How’d you know, anyway?  That I could do the magic in that first book?  Beyond mountain ash, that is.”

“Oh,” Deaton seems surprised to be asked. “Well, the restorative.”  Stiles gives him inquisitive eyebrows.  “I only listed the first three ingredients then got sidetracked checking Lydia over.  I never said what the other two were nor how to prepare them, and you added another two enhancers beyond those that I’d never even considered.  

“And unless you’d been in the clinic that day, you had no way of knowing I’d left a book of matches in the drawer when I’d burned some white sage or that the bottle of unlabeled water on the shelf was the pure kind I use for my aloe plant.  

“The brass paperclip dish was a stroke of genius— it’s properties, in retrospect, helped the oil and herbs set better, once fired.  Also, I’d have used the mortar and pestle already on the counter.  The restorative you made was easily three times more effective because of it.”

Stiles stares at him, eyes a little wide and lips parted in shock.  “Oh.”

Deaton’s lips twitch.  “Yes, oh.  Your ‘mojo-instinct’ or ‘magic-instinct’... I’ve never even heard of the like, on the scale you seem to have it.  It, and you, are quite remarkable.”

Stiles sighs, slumping just a little.  “Sometimes it seems.... heavy.”

Deaton nods.  “For your age, I don’t doubt it.  But part of that is just your sheer stubborn dedication.”  Stiles snorts.  “It’s a compliment, truly,” Deaton adds, a little wry.  “A powerful will is as potent as a force of nature.”

Stiles shrugs, looking away and resists the urge to scuff the ground with the toe of his shoe.  “I just want to help,” he says honest and quiet.

“And that, really, is what makes you so extraordinary, given the things you’ve already experienced.  Most sane people would flee.  Since this all began, even I’ve been tempted, a time or two.”

Stiles snorts again, stepping backward toward the jeep.  “Whoever said I was sane?”  He gives Deaton an over-bright, somewhat manic grin as he drives away.  In the rear view, Deaton doesn’t look it, but Stiles thinks he might just be laughing.

*************

Stiles has saved up almost two thousand now.It’s not enough for first and last rent for an efficiency apartment plus a deposit, plus a new-ish used car, but it’s actually a great start.The car may be an issue only because he has a feeling the jeep’s baby-blue days are numbered since, legally, it’s in his father’s name.But it was his mom’s and everyone knows she’d have wanted Stiles to have it, so he’s keeping it until someone pries it from his cold, dead, (or possibly imprisoned,) fingers.

Since his ridiculous mugshot (of early sophomore Stiles who hardly resembles him now) is still flashing on the news, three days later Dan at the bar and grill flat out asks him if he’s avoiding the police because of some crime he’d committed.  Stiles tells him no, but that he’s not ready to confront his father about a crime his father may have committed.  

Dan takes his word for it and insists that if he’s going to stay on, even part time, he needs to eat a little more because he still looks like a stiff wind will knock him down.  Then he gives him a free basket of fries and chicken fingers along with a Melissa-worthy ‘mom glare’.  Stiles eats half, under mild protest, but Dan had made them himself and somehow his fried foods tasted better than the usual cook’s. Rick (the usual cook) only scowled for a minute when he heard that. (He knew it was true.)  But Stiles actually manages to eat the rest before the end of the night.  He still feels chilled, most days, but he’s starting to feel just a little more whole.

The buzz of bad mojo, as Stiles has come to think of it, has settled, somehow.  The shadows still warp a bit, but no one’s eyes have twisted in days and while he’s grateful for the reprieve, he’s also a little paranoid now, maybe.  Now he’s just waiting for it and it’s making him twitchy, in more ways than one.  

Stiles distracts himself with magic, of course.  He’s made a dozen different potions and subtly tested nearly all of them in amulet form.  He’s not sure how long the effects will last for any, but figures maybe it’s a case-by-case sort of thing?  But walking straight through the bar unseen, even loudly bumping a few chairs askew on purpose with no one the wiser was totally worth it when Rick jumped back a full foot when Stiles was suddenly ‘seen’ and Rick hadn’t even noticed the squeaky kitchen door had opened and closed.  Rick doesn’t agree, but his reaction was kinda hilarious.

Stiles checks in with Melissa a few times a week for crazy short conversations and she tells him, as her text did, that she’s started a one-woman nag campaign in the effort of getting Stiles off the tv, at the very least. (“He can leave now, Noah, he can leave the _state_ if he wants to.”)  But it’s been over two weeks and his father has finally stopped taking her calls.  

Melissa made friends with a new deputy (Deputy Parrish? Serious hotty, ohhh if I was fifteen years younger!) who’s also keeping a close eye on the sherriff for everyone’s greater good.  His father’s been going to sporadic AA meetings, but he’s been seen at the bar a few times as well.  Stiles doesn’t know what to make of that, except that with his father’s sheer stubbornness, any progress is bound to be slow.

*************

Stiles is sadly still lacking the liquid luck, but he’s got a good feeling about registration day.He shows two hours early and sweet-talks the receptionist (Ms. Mercer?I almost didn’t recognize you — I like the new hairstyle!) into making a weeee little exception since his father’s still trying to get the tv station to stop with the video clip (Yeesh, I’d only gone camping!) and his own work shift (see his nice shirt and slacks?) will be starting at the same time usual registration starts. 

He’s had months of practice not babbling like a lunatic and far too much lifelong practice behaving like a responsible adult when he needs to and now, for the first time ever, he kind of despises how good he’s gotten at lying.  

But also for the first time ever, someone in the school takes him seriously and coughs up his schedule without much fuss.  New English teacher, same Coach (always good for a laugh)... Hey, he can take cross country for his P.E. requirement!  

Screw lacrosse. Benchwarming isn’t exactly a life-saving skill, but running?  Well, that actually _could_  be a life-saving skill.

He’s a little bummed that he’s got Harris again, but, whatever.  He’s also got magic.  He’ll survive.  Probably.  As long as the darkness doesn’t invade.  (And now, of course, he’s just jinxed himself.  Fuck.)

Another bummer?  Now that he’s here he feels compelled to take a quick tour to see what’s changed and what hasn’t.  The blushing Ms. Mercer (whose new hair really does flatter her face) shoos him off with a smiling reminder to keep track of the time, (wouldn’t want you to be late for your job!)  He makes a show of setting himself a reminder alarm on his phone and gives her another sincere thanks before he ducks out.

The school in the dim light of day is only slightly less spooky than the grim non-light of night, even without a feral crazy alpha on the prowl.Also a little emptier since most of the teachers haven’t yet arrived to pre-greet their students of the year.He’s following his daily schedule, (cause why not?) to get a real feel about the route.Most of the teachers are (very) early-bird no-shows, but not all.

“Mr. Stilinski,” comes the voice, mean and snide and just ‘off’ enough to make him wary. “And here I’d been somewhat hopeful you’d be paying your dues to society for all your delinquency in a jail cell.”Fannnntastic.Like a knee jerk reaction, Stiles is a little tempted to snark back, but the compulsion that’s been dragging him onward quit the second Harris had started talking.  _Shit._

Stiles turns, demeanor carefully patient and stoic, to face Harris and steps forward into the chem lab.  Harris looks slightly thrown by the action.  Stiles should be scurrying away, dragging Scott behind him.  It’s their MO.  

But Harris would be a lot more thrown if he could see Stiles’ truly pitying expression under his stoic mask because Harris ( _jesus_ ) has it bad - worse than Stiles at his lowest and emptiest.  He looks part raccoon and part concentration camp survivor and has lost enough weight that Stiles finally gets what Dan at the bar and grill had meant.  Because Harris?  There’s almost _nothing left_ of the man.

Stiles goes with the flow, because here, now, in the face of this kind of suffering, he can’t not.  So he sits at the closest lab station to Harris’ desk and leans in, fingers woven together.  For all that they’re ten feet apart, it feels like an oddly intimate gesture.  Now Harris looks nervous because they’ve both changed, a lot.  Stiles doesn’t even look like he _wants_  to sass him and Harris is one missed nap away from death.

“I think you’ll agree that this summer has sucked,” Stiles begins slowly, fighting to keep his best Deaton impersonation from fraying.  Harris’ lips thin, a little.  “It has,” Stiles bullies on, because he needs to say this right, preferably before Harris gets a wild itch to preemptively order detentions for the rest of the year.  More-so because Harris needs to hear it and Stiles can’t afford to waste time.  Harris doesn’t have much time left.

“It has,” Stiles continues, “because setting aside the nightmares, and the fatigue and the loss of everything from appetite to hope, it’s the things we ‘know’ without knowing that actually eat us alive from the inside out.”Harris’ eyes widen, just a touch, but he still says nothing.

“It starts small - nightmares that haunt for hours after you’ve given up any hope of decent sleep, an odd not-motion out of the corner of your eye kinda shit.  But soon it’s fluttering, something dark just beyond that.  And when it finally shows,” Stiles swallows hard, “black and inky and so mind-bendingly fucking horrible, that you freeze.  You see it and you’re stuck because no matter how hard you try to scream, you’re breathless and just can’t.  Look.  Away.  And every time you see it after that, it becomes more distinct.  More real.”

Stiles’ expression isn’t quite as fixed as he’d hoped, but his words have the terrible weight of experience and have Harris breathing in sharp little soundless gasps and his eyes are so... guarded.Fragile, even.But he’s having the revelation that what’s been happening to him isn’t as unique as he’d thought.

“It’s almost here, Mr. Harris,” he continues quietly.  “And I doubt you’ll survive another encounter.”  Harris’ gaze drops to his desk now, because he knows, maybe.  Any mirror will tell him so.

“Leave,” Stiles says, decisive.“And yeah, I mean it.Go.Get in your car, drive, today.Before nightfall.Don’t stop until you’re a least fifty miles outside the county.  Find a hotel and sleep.”

Harris is glaring tightly at the desk, jaw clenched and still wordless.

“It’s not surrendering; it’s strategically retreating,” Stiles adds.  “And it’ll save your life.”  He stands to go, advice given, but stops at the door.  “I’ve never disliked you enough to want you dead.  So please.  Save your own life.  Or don’t.”

Stiles finds the rest of his classes, and with the exception of an odd sense of ‘off’ in his English classroom, everything’s as it should be.  When he finally gets back outside to leave, Harris’ car is gone.

*************

Something about today feels a little lucky, now, staring at Harris’ empty car space.  Maybe lucky enough to actually get his mugshot off the tv.  Definitely, now, since that happy thought gives way to an unhappy compulsion to finally call his father.  Still, he feels more than a little queezy as he digs out his old cell and hits the speed dial.  For the first time since his birthday, he hears his dad’s voice, and the icy spill that floods in is a balm.

“St-Stiles?” His father’s voice sounds so small.  Weak.  Stiles doesn’t need to try hard not to care.  The man’s had plenty of time to come to terms with all he’d done.  Or with however much of it he remembers.

“Yes,” he answers simply, steeling himself.  “I’ll meet you today, and today only at the diner at four o’clock.  If you show up drunk, I’m gone, and I’ve learned a thing or two about not being seen.  It’s safe to say that that if you blow this opportunity, it’s the last you’ll see of me until someone who isn’t you finds me beaten or eaten to death in a ditch somewhere.”  The words are tonelessly cold.  But they’re maybe more honest, because of it.

He hears the gulp before the reply.  “I’ll be there.  Of course I will. Is—“

“I’ll see you then,” Stiles adds, but actually pauses with his thumb over the disconnect when his father’s voice comes out a little rushed and desperate.

“Wait!  Is there... um.  Is there anything you need?  I mean—“

“Actually, yes,” Stiles cuts in smoothly.  “Take that idiotic clip off the air.  It hasn’t caused _me_  any trouble, but it’s dangerous, because it still could cause _someone_ trouble.  And with the supernatural climate being what it is, it’s likely to get some nightmare-ridden moron down on his luck convinced that the kid down the block is me, and he might get rewarded for bringing not-me in.”

“Oh, jesus.  Of course... I, uh.  I hadn’t thought of that.  I’ll call them now.  Four o’clock?”

“I’ll see you there.”

This time, Stiles hangs up.  And turns off the phone again.

He breathes through the chill, slow and steady, eyes closed, ass resting on the back bumper and just... breathes.It feels like there’s something, some small part on the edge of his heart that’s trembling out of tune with the rest of his heartbeat.Not dangerous, but he’s aware of it and has no idea what it means. 

As much as he’d like someone to hold his hand through all of this, some of it feels too personal, too much for anyone who’d willingly go with him.  He’s considered Kira, but this is the kind of personal-heavy he’s not sure he can lay at the feet of a new friend.  While she knows the bare bones of why he’s not living in a house with the very last of his blood relatives, she doesn’t know everything. 

He manages to take a decent photo of his back, as is.  It’s not as horribly raw as it was, but the scars are unmistakably his, dotted with his personal constellations of moles.  Which, photo-wise, is pretty much the point.  Proof.

He calls Kira last and lets her distract and pep-talk him until it’s time to go, but more than anything else she’s said, it’s her parting line that has him lifting his chin a little higher.

“You’re not a victim anymore, Stiles.  There’s nothing left of that boy.  All that _is_  left is the extraordinary man who has done nothing but prove he’s a survivor.”  He vows to hug her senseless next time he sees her and drives on to the diner.

*************

Even bolstered by Kira’s words, Stiles is grateful for the deep chill that pours in and cages his insides like a shield the second he slips into the diner unseen and sits across from his father who looks as tired as everyone else, but otherwise no different.  He’s just nervous sitting in his uniform, no badge, no gun.  Harmless-looking, to most.  But at least he’s sober, which means he’s taking Stiles seriously.

Stiles waits until everyone seems distracted by a glass breaking somewhere up front before he becomes seen again.His father’s eyes widen, briefly, mouth gaping like a fish at Stiles having just popped in from seemingly nowhere at all, before really looking at him.“You look good.”His voice is quiet and rusty.

Stiles nods a fraction.  “Honestly, you don’t.  But not many really do around here these days.”

“Yeah,” comes the soft reply.  “But that’s not what this talk is for, is it?

“No.  You won’t want to hear this, but you’re sick.  In more than one way.”

His father flinches and frowns, lips pinched, but doesn’t object.

“You do have the same illness everyone around here is succumbing to.  But you’re also an alcoholic.  And worse, you’re one with violent abusive tendencies.”  His father looks ready to object.  “Would you like to see the pictures?”

His father pales, looking horrified, but not for his own sake, it seems.  Looking horrified, for once, on _Stiles’_ behalf.  This is what Stiles has been hoping for, so why does it feel like he’s punishing himself?

“There aren’t enough apologies,” his father stutters out with a shake of the head, “I don’t know how to fix any of this, with what’s going on right now.”

“There’s a rehab center,” Stiles begins and suddenly, his father switches, a hard left as opposed to a 180.

“ _No_ , no that’s not necessary.  I’ve been going to meetings, I’ve—“

“Been going to bars, too.”  Stiles interrupts.  His father’s eyes widen then narrow a bit.

“You’ve been spying on me?” He hisses, a little angry and looking a little sickened.  Maybe just embarrassed to be caught in the lie.

“Of course not,” Stiles says truthfully.  “But other people have been, because they were concerned enough about what’s happening with you to realize the ramifications it will have on our town and everyone who lives in it.  You’ve been negligent and sloppy.  You’ve missed clues that could have given the supernatural community a better idea of what it is we’ve been facing.  You’ve been spied on because more often than not, you’ve been at least half drunk.”

His father just blinks, mouth opening and closing.

“What I want is the same thing I’ve been fighting for since the night Scott was bitten.  Safety.  Peace of mind.  I haven’t backed out of a responsibility without a good reason since Mom died.  I’ve fought to make things better for someone, sometimes me, sometimes others, but most times, _you_.

“For my troubles, Gerard Argent and his two nameless goons kidnapped me off the lacrosse field, kicked me hard enough to crack a rib and threw me into a van.Twenty minutes later, Gerard threw me down his son’s basement stairs, which sliced my side open bad enough to need fourteen stitches the next day.Then he beat the hell out of me, and that geriatric fucker had fists like hammers, hard enough to crack two more ribs.He did all that as a message to Scott, because a mostly helpless teenager was clearly a good message board, all in an effort to prove to Scott that Scott couldn’t protect me or anyone else.

“And I couldn’t tell you, because while Gerard himself might have been out of the game not long after that, his minions were also card-carrying psychos and the minute you went looking for any of them, I became an _orphan_.”

His father sits back slowly, eyes wide.

“So I came home, I lied to save your life, and things just... carried on.  I got stitches at a clinic, antibiotics.  I took care of myself, for the most part, because there was no one else.  You started working doubles every day, partially because this whole county is land-mined with things no one can naturally explain away, but mostly to avoid me.”  Stiles swallows hard.  “But the thing that’s infected us, all of us, was already here.  But unlike the rest of you, I’d been collecting nightmares for more than a month by then. 

“The pack accepted my presence, even while they pushed me out, which turned out to be a mistake, for the same reason so many double shifts was yours.”

When Satomi had called after Stiles had visited Deaton, it was to tell Stiles what she knew about magical radiance and absorption.  It didn’t make him feel any better, but it was good to finally wrap his head around it, if only a little.  Illogical as it was though, it still left him feeling like if he’d pushed harder with both his father and the pack, all of this could have been avoided.

“When some of us live here all our lives, some pick up those landmine unexplained things - and I was one of them.  I didn’t know it then, but I sort of sap off some of that bad vibe.  Just enough to keep people close to me steady.  To keep them sane.  You stopped coming home and the pack lost their patience with their leech on a leash.”  His father’s eyes are all regret.  He still says nothing, because Stiles isn’t done.  

“The first time you came home plastered for the first time in two years, you were still in uniform, and still _armed_.  The second time, you shoved me so hard into a doorframe, I had a lined bruise down my spine for more than a week.  The third time was a few weeks after the whole diner bullshit and you dragged me out of bed, threw me on the floor, and thrashed me unconscious with a belt.  It ripped my back open in one spot. I crawled my way to the bathroom and passed out in a cold shower.  It only needed a butterfly bandage but that’s when I started locking my door when I slept.  

“But the last time is the most memorable — in the way of it took me until I walked in here to actually remember it.” Stiles swallows, hard, fighting back nausea.

“Because there was another mysterious, possibly djinn-related murder that I had nothing to do with and you were _livid.”_

Stiles is seeing it now, offhandedly wishing he didn’t.  But this shrinking man on the other side of the table needs to understand.  Right now, his father is trembling, eyes wide and a little wet, maybe finally remembering it himself.

“My door was locked and you actually kicked out the knob. Just like the time before, you hauled me out of bed by my hair, screaming loud enough that’s it’s only luck our neighbors are elderly and hard of hearing.Then there were the kicks.The belt came next, mostly on my chest, which was a rather sickening change up.But I rolled, I tried to crawl away.The kick in the middle of my back drove me head first into my desk drawer. I think if I’d accepted the clinic’s offer for a head X-ray, it would’ve shown a cracked skull — I was concussed, but not unconscious.You stomped on my hand, breaking two of my fingers and the belt started again, this time on my legs, back.My back took the worst, because by that time, I’d dropped to a nearly anorexic 120 pounds and had no fat left to protect me.The buckle tore into me eleven times. 

“When you kicked me back over, I started to vomit, but in the dark, you didn’t see — didn’t notice.I was drowning right there on the floor when you finally stumbled out again, and by the time you started snoring, had our resident banshee been anywhere nearby, she likely would’ve screamed.And I know that, because I was still aware enough to _feel it_ when my heart stopped.”  Stiles’ voice cracks, just a little and he pauses to just breathe for a minute.  “The fact that I’m still here to talk about it is one of those landmine mysteries that may never have an explanation.”Stiles chokes the words out, remembering it in vivid detail and trying to cling to his frosty calm.

“When I ‘woke up’, it was a lot like the first time, except for the burning in my throat, the ache in my chest.Dried blood and vomit. Passing out in the shower.And then I get downstairs, wondering if I could even make it to the clinic without causing an accident, and I find a Happy Birthday note from you.Signed with a fucking _smiley face_.”Calm thoughts, calm thoughts.

“So I packed up everything I thought I would need to make it on my own for a while, and I left.I got 89 stitches and a doctor all but begging me to let him call the Sheriff’s department.”Stiles lays the phone, complete with picture, down on the table.

Stiles is patient.While he waits for his father to make it back from the bathroom he finds the information for the clinic on his phone and jots it down on a bit of paper with a pen he gets from the waitress.He thinks he remembers her from school last year, but that seems like, and may be, an actual, literal lifetime ago. 

He writes a quick message on the back, just as his father comes trembling back from the restroom, wiping his mouth with a paper towel.He seems surprised that Stiles is still there, but sits back down anyway.

Stiles lays the info down in front of him.

“It’s a three to five week program, on average.Detox and hardcore counseling and outside the apparent ‘evil splash zone’, as best I can tell.  When you leave, they’ll put you on pills that’ll make falling off the wagon a truly miserable experience. 

“Put someone you trust in charge of the station and let them talk to Mayor Anders - as I understand it, he’s also an avid visitor to a variety of ‘meetings’.When you get out, find someone to dispense your pills daily.Try Parrish, maybe.I’ve never met him, but he’s friends with Melissa and she says he’s more concerned with you as an individual than as a cop.” 

Stiles stands, his legs feeling weak and wobbly.

“Make it a year, and we’ll talk again.”His father nods, lip trembling and eyes wet.

Stiles flips the note over and walks away.

 

********

 

_You owe this to me.More, you owe it to Mom.And you owe it to yourself. Self-defeat is not an option._

—Stiles.


	6. Validation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations.
> 
> Mild warning: slightly dark and twisted anonymous sex.

***********

Stiles walks unseen out of the diner, down the street, down one road and up another and then walks some more and eventually finds himself at the cemetery.  He half-collapses next to his mother’s headstone and finally lets it all go. 

He starts with Laura’s body and Scott’s bite and crazy Peter as the alpha and how he was so scared and horrified and helpless when the kanima crushed that guy at the garage to death in the next room over and all Stiles could do was listen to the wet crunch of bone and blood-spatter that not even the dude’s screams could drown out.

He tells her about the pack as he knew them with all theirs strengths and weaknesses and quirks; about having felt, at last, like a part of them - a part of something bigger than just him and Scott and Dad — a part of something important.  

He tells her about Derek, and that little satisfied smile he’d get when any of the pack mastered something big or small and Derek looked honestly proud of them; he tells her about the things Stiles himself had mastered... and no one had even noticed.  No one. He tells her he thinks, even now, that it’s mostly on him, the end result.  Because he was the odd one out.  

But he tells her about Peter’s snark and Erica’s newfound love for life she’d never had before the bite.  He tells her about Isaac’s ridiculous scarfs and how content he seems with a whole pack for family.  He tells her about Boyd’s steady nature, strong enough to weather everything that’s ever been thrown at him and the way he inspires the pack to do the same.  He tells her about Lydia’s (impressive) banshee abilities and Jackson’s jackass-ness that Stiles had learned to accept, because Jackson needed someone who wasn’t in love with him or someone like Danny who loved him like a brother to accept him as is.  He tells her about Allison’s confidence and even Chris’ easy half-smiles whenever the pack come together and remind him his daughter’s in good hands.  Stiles says little about Scott.  What’s there to say?  He tells her about Melissa and how tough she still is, bearing the weight of life with her kickass attitude and steady mom-ness.

And he tells her that despite all that, he’d still been so blind and disconnected that he hadn’t really grasped how out of sorts and out of place he was until he didn’t have them at all anymore.  Until he didn’t have _anyone_  anymore.

He starts to tell her about Dad, and just stops for a few minutes, wiping away a loose tear.  “You already know that part, and it hurts to think about it.”But his dad would get help now, even if he and Stiles would never heal together, maybe they could separately. 

He tells her about dying (burning pain and inky-slick dark and frozen terror) or coming so close to death it was mostly the same?He tells her the dark, shameful truth - that if he’d known then that he would’ve come back for the newest tidal wave of hell this town has become for him, he might’ve chosen _not_ to come back.But he knows now there’s a lot of people who are too weak to help themselves, or simply don’t know how, and he thinks he stays more for them than himself some days.

He tells her about his magic and the ridiculous things he’d love to try.He tells her about the darkness, and what he fears is hiding inside of it.He tells her about his last few weeks, mostly peaceful weeks, and how no matter how great the new people he’s met, even as amazing a friend as Kira is, none of them know the him of who he _was_  and the him that’s _now_.He’s different to the point of being a stranger, even to himself and he’s still achingly alone in a lot of ways because of it.

He tells her he knows now what it’s like to be the one sentry of what feels like a one man army and how _heavy_ it is.He knows, abstractly, that he’s strong enough to bear the brunt this time, he can _feel_  it - but like everyone else in this town now, he’s tired.So, _so tired_.

He tells her everything, minus the... well, the NC-17 bits.He presses a kiss to her headstone and moves on. 

***********

He’s never seen the Hale plot up close before, but it seems like now’s a good time, since he’s already here.He must finally be getting extra used to the weird, almost-coincidental vibe of this town because he’s not overly surprised to find a Hale here _above_  the ground.

He _is_ surprised that it’s Peter, though. He remembers at the last second that he’s still unseen and flicks the amulet off.

Then (because he’s _totally_  justified) he grins like an idiot until Peter calms back down.

“Don’t.... _DO_ that.” Peter snarls, but his eyes are their natural human blue and sparkling with surprised amusement.

“Payback’s a bitch,” Stiles says easily.  “Every one of you sneaky fuckers deserves it.”  Because yes.  They really, _really_  do.

Peter rolls his eyes with a huff.“Not the point.”

“Totally the point,” Stiles shoots back. “Speaking of points,” he continues casually, “there’s no point in stalking me when I can more or less vanish into thin air from two feet away.Don’t suppose _you_ can tell me why I’ve got the puppy patrol on my trail now?So I don’t have to counter-stalk the lot of _you_  instead?I’ve got plenty on my plate already and time is money, these days.”

Peter purses his lips, thinking. “Well, no one explicitly told me _not_ to tell you,” he muses.  Even if they had, Peter’s practically made a hobby of breaking and bending the rules, and they both know it.

Stiles waits, eyes drifting over the multitude of headstones from one lost Hale to the next.There’s too many children in this plot.Too many _everyones_ in this plot.

“Some of the pack have been getting more emotionally erratic.  Paranoid, even,” Peter admits, frowning.“Derek, especially.”Stiles winces, but nods. Makes sense.It’s Derek, after all; still waiting for that other shoe to drop.“I believe a bulk of Derek’s paranoia stems from the possibility that something will happen to you,” Peter says slowly, side-eyeing Stiles.  “Or is already happening.  Or has already happened.”  Peter veers the conversation away from alpha and pack when Stiles’ eyes darken with silent anger.  “Do you know what’s been occuring around here lately?”

Stiles huffs. “Well, I’ve been living in a tent, not under a rock, so yes, mostly.  And Deaton and I have been keeping each other apprised, more or less.”Stiles huffs, lips thinning.“Though my information is a little limited to what Deaton tells me, mostly, which isn’t much— his priority is still you all.But I know there’s something that’s attacking the town, infecting people— well, the whole county, really.In fact, you guys were pretty much the last one to be affected.”

“Do you know why?” Peter asks, seriously.

“Why something evil is attacking and infecting everyone? Because it’s evil.And hungry.As to why you’re the last affected?”Stiles shrugs.Them knowing he’s some kind of a bad vibe sponge won’t help them, he doesn’t think.Not when he can’t accept them again any more than they could ever accept him. 

Stiles sighs.“Yes, but there’s no immediate fix for the cause of it, since we don’t know what the cause is.  So, unless it’s dire life and death, and the restoratives might help to slow down the symptoms some,” Stiles shrugs a little helplessly, “there’s not much to be done, really.  I might be able to contact someone on your behalf, maybe?Someone who probably should be more affected than they are, but... they seem to be doing much better than all of you, from what little I’ve seen.”He peers over at Peter in the slowly fading light.“All I can do is ask, though.”  Stiles wonders if Satomi would even agree to meet with the Hales.  How well do multiple alphas get along in an enclosed-ish place anyhow?  Just because their territories border each other...

Peter ponders that for a minute, nods, but asks “Does it have any relation to why I am less ‘ill’ than the others?”

Stiles huffs out a quick breath.Peter’s still too smart for everyone’s own good.“Did you spend any time out of town lately?” He asks instead.“That would definitely help.”

“Evasion,” Peter accuses.

“Deflection,” Stiles corrects.“Also, relevant.  Proximity matters.  So, is anyone life or death bad yet?”

“Difficult to say.Derek’s further gone than the others, definitely.”

Stiles nods. “If his eyes start flickering again, call Deaton.Pretty sure that’s like the metaphorical throbbing left arm before a fatal heart attack.”  Peter nods and they stare quietly out at the graves.

“You should know...” Peter says slowly, looking troubled, “the paranoia?It’s gotten some of them thinking _you,_ to some degree, are responsible for all this.” 

It’s not just the mountain-sized wave of arctic chill that rushes into Stiles this time, but a cold flame of anger, too.“I read somewhere once that people’s initial suspicion of another person’s actions is directly related to what they themselves are most likely to do.If someone ran over and killed my dog and became suddenly convinced _my_  first reaction would be retaliation via killing their dog?  It means that if I’d accidentally killed theirs first, it’s actually them that would retaliate like that.  Their suspicions say more about them than me.” 

Stiles spears Peter with a look.“I was ousted and did _nothing_ except maybe rip my own pride away long enough to actually _beg_ not to be—” Stiles pauses to steady his voice because even that feels like it’s freezing solid..“And somehow _I’m_ to blame for the end results?  _Fuck that.”_ He looks Peter full in the face and watches him pale a little at whatever enraged expression Stiles is wearing.“And it’s times like these that I’m actually _grateful_ to be so far removed from people I love like family, because not only do they obviously have no fucking clue who I am, they obviously _never have_.”

Peter’s eyes widen, head already shaking. “Stiles, that’s not —“ But now Peter’s talking to empty air, because Stiles vanishes in a blink, just as quickly and silently as he’d come.

Peter stares out into the gathering night, stomach dropping.  “Shit.”

***********

Stiles walks with measured steps down the long and empty route back to the diner and the jeep, shedding his anger bit by fractional bit until he’s left feeling almost as raw and wrong as he had before he’d left his father’s house, never to return.  It’s so fucking _stupid_  how all of this had come about.  Would things be different if they knew he was suffering just as much, if not _more_ than they were?  He swallows down the sick, bitter pill of knowing that even after all of this, a part of him wants their validation. Wants their approval. And he hates himself for it, just a little.  

Maybe more than a little.

His breath is shuddering unsteadily out of him when he parks again, stares up at the warehouse lights and feels the bass of music before he even gets out of the jeep.  

Jungle is surprisingly busy for a Thursday, a long line out the door and everyone glammed up and leaking pheromones and sweat like scented mating calls and he only gets halfway to the door before he realizes he doesn’t want to go in. Doesn’t want to dance or drink or flirt or be hit on.  He follows his instincts, veers right and slips in between buildings where the streetlights are dimmest and hears the scuffle of bodies in motion, grunting satisfaction and bitten-off moans and Stiles sighs with relief when a foreign hand comes out of nowhere and yanks him into the dark by his shirt to paw at his crotch, clumsy and drunk.  

Stiles yanks the guy’s hair back, bites sharply on a stubbled jaw, then licks his way into his vodka-flavored mouth with a whine while yanking both their belt buckles loose, drags the guy’s jeans and his own slacks down enough to get a fat double handful of hard cock that has the faceless dude hissing in a breath and a little plastic tube is shoved into his free hand, wordless.  Stiles shakes his head, bites the guy’s lip, hard, then turns to the brick wall, shoving his hips back. 

It’s all the invitation that’s needed and after a wet *schlick* of a condom wrapper tearing open, two slicked-up fingers ram their tight way in, too hard to feel good but _just_ right. _Exactly_ right. 

Maybe the dude’s not as drunk as Stiles had assumed, because he manages to make it last, pins Stiles’ face carelessly against the scratchy brick with a tight fist in his hair and just _takes_ what he wants, driving in deep and violent and sharp and _so fucking good_  that Stiles is whimpering out little pained noises, ignoring his own raging erection entirely while he claws weakly at the wall.

He peers through hazy eyes into the darker corners and sees the vague outlines of other people on their knees with mouths full, another with their face pressed down to the filthy trash-strewn ground, arm twisted painfully up behind them and little grunts of pleasure/pain beaten out with every jerk of the hips while another has someone’s hand wrapped around a throat, keeping them still while gratified tears fall past lips opened in needy bliss.  

He revels in this darker dance, thrusts his hips back as best he can to meet his partners’ with a meaty slap of flesh on flesh; feels the trickle of sweat down his back, down his balls and and the guy finally curses with a whine, drives in one last time and twitches deep with a near silent groan.  He’s gone a second later, pants up and buckled and scoffs, Stiles thinks, when he sees Stiles still motionless against the wall, trying to regain his breath and (secretly/freakishly) glad he didn’t come.  It’s not why he’s here.

”Slut,” the guy mutters disdainfully and disappears back toward the street. Stiles just nods in the dark, forehead scraping and eyes fluttering shut to let loose a single tear of relief that he can breathe a little easier.  He squeezes out a few more when a new set of fingers thread through his hair from behind and grip tight while another hand lines up another condom-clad dick, pauses (waiting for Stiles to protest?) and drives in, ruthlessly hard and hot and Stiles whines when the sparse bit of lube begins to wear off but it only makes it better, makes him needier, with his neglected cock weeping out little droplets every time his sensitive cock head scrapes too close to the brick of the wall and he loses track, a little, of where he is and for how long because it’s another guy entirely who gently shushes him, even while he pants in Stiles’ ear, cock jerking inside him (so deep Stiles could swear he feels it behind his navel) with a little gasp, grips Stiles’ cock tight, fingernails digging in cruelly and tells him to go home, to wait until he’s there to deal with his own worthless dick and make it hurt a little when he does; punishment complete.

 _Thank fuck_ , he’s not alone; someone else _gets it._   Even if it’s some nameless, faceless schmuck in the deep dark, Stiles isn’t the only one.  He’s not here for some twisted orgasmic reward.  He’s here to fill a role, be necessary, be convenient; to be of use.  

When Stiles nods again, muscles loosening and finally breathing free as he’s tugging his pants back up, the guy (sounds oily slick and lipless and too many chattering, pointed teeth) presses a kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck that makes his skin crawl a little.

“Bring that hungry little hole back, anytime.”  Stiles wonders if he will.  He thinks he might, and hates himself for that, too.

 

***********

Halfway back to the campground, Stiles feels the buzz under his skin, retreating into the distance; it feels coldly satisfied.  

It feels well fed.

***********

 


	7. Schooled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s so ready for this....
> 
> Right?

School is here again at last, and Stiles is so very ready for it.Well, academically anyhow.Socially is a different story, but that’s alright too, mostly.He’ll make at least a study buddy, surely.  But even if he can’t, which would suck, it’s not the end of the world- he’s had plenty of practice at being alone, after all. And hey, maybe even add on zero hour for an extra few credits?Maybe some online enrichment classes?  He’d graduate early, if he plays his cards right, and that’s maybe the only thing he needs.He’ll try to hit up the guidance counselor over lunch, unless —

“Well, I _thought_ I was starting school on Thursday; imagine my surprise when Dad tells me he transferred me from Davenport because he’s the new history teacher here?”Kira sighs dramatically in the doorway right behind him with an Lydia-worthy eye roll.Stiles blinks at her, his surprised lips twitching up with each new word.“So, will I have at least one friend to keep me sane in this crazy school?”She leans in with faux wide eyes peeking one direction, then the other and stage whispers: “Rumor has it, there’s _werewolves_ here!”

Stiles, well.Maybe tackles her, glomping style.“Ohhhh, I’m so glad you’re here.”Kira giggles into his t-shirt, squeezing back.“You’re amazing you know,” he says down into her hair, quieter.

“I know,” she says to his shirt and he snorts.

“Humble, too.” 

Kira snickers, pulling away to grin up at him.“Let’s see your schedule.We’ve got to have at least a few classes together, right?”

Unsurprisingly, they do.Government, Econ, AP English, AP Chem, and co-ed P.E., which is a roundhouse course except for the few field study electives, like Stiles’ cross country.For an hour every day, he gets to jog for school credit.Kira decides on the spot to take cross country with him and elbows him lightly in the kidney when he points out her tiny legs may not finish the course along with her determination.

“Shows what you know, bub.Foxes can sprint like no one’s business, but for stamina?Second only to wolves and coyotes for distance.”In other words: challenge accepted.

They share American Government first, taught by her father, but track down their lockers beforehand.“You’re gonna love my dad, seriously,” she insists, shoving a stack of books into her locker.“He’s pretty laid back for a suit and tie guy.”

Then there’s a polite cough, just behind them.“Glad my daughter has such a high opinion of me.”Kira smiles her goofy (whoops?) smile and makes introductions, and ‘yes Dad, I promise we’ll drag him in for dinner soon.Grams has been trying to lure him indoors for a month.He can’t hold out much longer.’

“And she’ll have to keep trying.I get the impression she’ll forcibly adopt me if I do, and I like living in the wild,” he tells them honestly. 

Kira’s right about her dad, of course; he’s a great teacher with a fair curriculum and plenty of extra credit challenge opportunities.Stiles’ notes are meticulous and he manages to keep his head down with only a few rare odd looks from other students.No one has yet dared to ask why he’d been a summer TV star, missing in action.

Everything feels so easy and natural with Kira as his in-school bestie that he actually (mostly) forgets about the pack until AP Calc second period.Of course Lydia’s in this one.Also Danny, who gives him an odd sort of smile Stiles just can’t quite parse but sends a friendly head nod back to anyhow.Then blushes down to the roots when he finally remembers that the last time he’d seen Danny had been at Jungle.With the twins.Getting his grind on.

Their refresh quiz at the beginning of the hour is only marred by being called out by the teacher as one of the only two students to have aced it all.And Stiles had turned his in a full two minutes faster than Lydia; Stiles can practically feel Lydia’s confused frown.Whatever - it’s not his fault everyone assumes he’s an average student.

Well, okay.That’s not _entirely_ true; he played a small fibbing part. 

The only thing worse than being known as A: The sheriff’s son, and B: The local school spaz would be C:To top it all off with being one of the smartest kids in his grade... or, well... the whole school, really.And he’d never wanted Scott to feel weird for his own average-ish grades.But this year? Stiles refuses to sweat it.He’s going for his own gpa walk of pride.

Econ third hour is an odd combination of entertaining and uncomfortable.Entertaining, because Coach, if nothing else, is still Coach; ie: a heavy dose of crazy, a milder dose of ridiculous, and the mandatory dose of school-serious.

Uncomfortable because: Scott, Isaac, Erica and Kira, who smells like a wolf pack, but not like _Hale_ pack.The betas all shift a little oddly every time Stiles and Kira eyebrow talk or flash quick notes to each other.Whatever - the school is a territory-free zone, like all schools everywhere.They’ll just have to suck it up.

Fourth hour is where Stiles hit his first truly odd spot - in the form of two very familiar identical faces and their wickedly sexy smiles.That they were ‘wolves new to the area was obvious to everyone in the Hale pack, frantically (why?) texting back and forth as class went on, which didn’t impress the new English teacher at all. 

Stiles was more distracted by the teacher herself.There was something ‘off’ about her - the same ‘off’ Stiles had felt on registration day, but Stiles couldn’t quite put his finger on _why._

The twins, (Ethan and Aiden, Stiles has learned) catch up with him on his way to the guidance office before lunch, a wary and badly sneaky Isaac trailing behind to eavesdrop.

“Y’know,” Stiles muses, “if I’d known you guys were gonna go here, I might’ve passed on ‘funtime’ way back when.Not still expecting flowers, I hope?”Stiles locks his trembly knees when they flash identical boner-inducing grins at him.

“Well, if we knew you’d be going here too, I’d have insisted on taking you out for dinner, at least,” Aiden smirks. 

Stiles snorts, head shaking and keeps walking.

“No, really, is it too late for dinner?” Ethan asked, a little quieter, catching up with Stiles.“Cause I’d totally be up for that.”Stiles stops mid-stride, frowning at him.

“Yes, since I saw you and Danny doing the ‘bumpin’ ugly eye dance’ not twenty minutes ago.Danny’s a good guy and deserves all the attentions.Don’t screw with him, if you’re just gonna be a player,” Stiles said, honest and serious.Ethan looks a little abashed.

“Look,” Stiles sighs, “fun as our evening was, I meant it as a one off, and so did you.Leave it back on memory lane, seriously.”He winks with a shy little smile to take the sting out of his words and disappears into the guidance office.

Kira finds him in the library not long after, gnawing on an apple and looking over zero hour options.“Zero hour?Like your day’s not long enough already?”

He shrugs.“It’s not like I’m asleep later than four or five a.m. regardless. May as well make the most of it.If I play my cards right, I can graduate a semester early.”

Kira looks a little sad at that, but smiles anyway.“Not in a hurry to walk the walk with the rest of the class?”

Stiles snorts.“It’s not like any of the rest of the class even knows me that well, if at all.Except you,” he hurries to add.“You could take zero hour too, ya know.We’ll both make a clean and early getaway.”He grins.“Like Bonnie and Clyde, with less murdery tendencies.”

She snorts, but sits to peruse the list over his shoulder.“Well, lets see our options, then.”

Neither of them notice Boyd, reshelving books on modern American economics in the stacks behind them.They might have wondered why he looked uncharacteristicly sad, if they had.

Stiles narrows his zero hour options down to Finance and Psychology and decides to mull it over a day or two - he can make up the missing work fairly easily, he thinks.Kira seems equally undecided and does the same.

“Ugh.How’d I end up with AP Chem anyway?I wasn’t that great at _regular_ Chem.”Kira’s scowling at her schedule as they trudge up to the second floor.“Are you any good at it?”  She asks.  Stiles shrugs.

“When I want to be, sure.I always toned down my grades some before.Too much attention for perfect grades always seemed a little — well, it wasn’t easy being me, the last few years.May as well go for broke this year.You can be my lab buddy.I’ll keep you on top of it.”

Harris, Stiles notes, looks _a million_  times better.He’s put on just enough weight not to look too much worse than the rest of the population and bonus?  Harris more or less _ignores Stiles_   _entirely_ , not even blinking when Stiles parks himself at a spot with Kira near the front row and as far as he can get from Scott, Allison, Boyd and Lydia in the back.  Stiles can still feel their eyes on him though, like an itch on the back of his neck.

Stiles is doing everything he can to not even _look_  at any of the pack, staving off the chilly pit with heavy doses of Kira-ness, which is probably not a great mental health strategy, but... it’s not like he’s taking Kira for granted.She’s easily the best friend he’s got, if not the only one who isn’t a secretive Druid or a would-be mom.  He hopes Kira knows how much he values her for just being her.

Last hour finally arrives and what promises to be the best and worst class of the day.He leaves his undershirt on when he changes to his track clothes, but gets cornered by a grumpy Coach on his way out to the track field.

“Bilinski, why aren’t you on the lacrosse roster?” Coach shouts at him from five feet away with an erratic arm gesture to the sign-up board.“You’re on the team!So get your name up there!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Stiles says, quieter with a twitch of a shrug. “Not this year.Cross country only.I can’t take the extra curricular time.But hey, you’ve got those twins on the roster now too and those two are huge!You’ll have a great team without me.”Coach scowls, but just huffs and turns away.Stiles’ pride isn’t _too_ bruised over Coach not having argued more, but hey.Maybe he’s just impressed Stiles can stand up for himself?Meh.Naw.

Stiles’ school day takes it’s last real downfall two minutes later when he discovers that all the lacrosse players are now _also_ on the cross country team, which means Jackson, Scott, Isaac, and Boyd all in close proximity.But there’s a slightly happier bonus of the sweaty twin eye candy of Aiden and Ethan.But pack and mystery alpha ‘wolves aside, he’s got Kira there, which easily makes up for it.

“Race you?” She grins with a sly, challenging look as they stretch in the grass.

“Hell no, girl.I’ve got some pride left.Not much, mind you, but some.Getting beat by your tiny legs will surely bruise my fragile ego.”How he manages to say that last bit with a straight face, he’ll never know, but she’s snickering all the way through warm ups while they both ignore the pack blatantly listening in and looking progressively more upset, for some weird reason.

Today’s a warmup day, though, so after a dozen laps around the pitch, class and school are over.He opts to shower back at camp to avoid seriously awkward questions ( _that_  kind of waking nightmare isn’t one he thinks he can deal with), with a possible quick stop at the hospital to visit Melissa and get the magical 411 on all things medically spooky.The fact that it’s been so supernaturally quiet lately has him a little concerned.

Kira catches him in he parking lot after last bell with a skippy little jump to his side.“Hey stranger, give a girl a lift home?”She waggles her eyebrows ridiculously and he rolls his eyes to cover his snorting laugh.

“If I must,” he drones out, lips twitching... until Scott himself swings around a red pickup and stops dead in the way of Stiles’ jeep, sending a glowering suspicious look at Kira and confused hurt at Stiles.

Stiles feels the ice flood back in, expression dropping flat and leaves him staring blankly.Scott opens and closes his mouth a few times at Stiles before switching his attention to Kira, who only looks mildly curious.

“This territory is already claimed by the Hale pack and has been for decades,” Scott says harshly.  “What are you doing here?”His words are mostly calm but his demeanor is almost hostile.Stiles narrows his eyes at the same rate, he thinks, as Kira’s do.

“If you knew anything about territory,” Kira informs him, “you’d know schools, holy sites, and public or state property don’t qualify and never have.You’re in my way,” she adds, waving a hand at Scott’s blatant walking obstruction.“If you have an issue,” she says impatiently when Scott glares and doesn’t budge, “have your alpha call mine.”Scott just stares at her, frustrated, before his eyes swivel back to Stiles. 

“You seriously joined another pack?!Why?!You were _supposed_ to stay _out_ of all this!”He practically shouts (which has heads turning from every direction), looking —

Oh _hell_ no.  _Scott_  looking betrayed?Whatever Stiles’ face is doing seems a little lost on Scott, right up until it doesn’t and Scott goes pale in the way Peter did in the cemetery —backing away at the same pace Stiles advances on him.When Scott trips and lands on his ass, Stiles just looms over him, leaning way down into Scott’s personal space until Scott looks away, confused and submissive.

“You have no fucking right to looked betrayed _old friend._ And you will treat Kira with the fucking respect she deserves.She’s one of the only ones who was there to put me back together when _you_ left me broken.And like she said.Have a problem?Call Alpha Ito, who, not that it’s any of _your_  god damn business, is _not_ my alpha.I don’t _have_ an alpha, therefor I have no one to expect me to stay out of anything.Stay the fuck away from me, all of you.”He snarls out the last and knows instantly, that the entire pack hears it, regardless of where they are.Scott’s eyes are very, very wide.

“Stiles,” Kira hisses a little urgently.“Do _not_ magic out in the middle of the parking lot!Too many witnesses - too hard to explain.C’mon.”Her hand on his arm tugs him away, dampening that frozen fire churning in his stomach while they huddle in the jeep and he counts out a dozen calming breaths.“You okay?” She asks when he’s finally thawing.

“Yeah... Sorry.And thanks.”   _He will not cry.  He will not cry._

“Anytime,” she insists.  “You know that; any time _at all_.”

He nods shakily, starts the jeep, and they go.

***********

He changes his mind on visiting Melissa today - he’ll try again tomorrow, maybe, before his shift at the bar.  

Despite Kira and Satomi’s (and both Kira’s parents, and Brett, and Lori)’s best efforts, Stiles refuses to be lured in tonight for food and company - he’s got at least one bit of magic to work that feels vital to surviving school.Or, more to the point, the _pack_ surviving _him_ during school.

It’s a semi-complex spell, but doesn’t seem that difficult.A simple lock out to keep the Hale pack from speaking directly to him unless it’s for academic school purposes.Nothing can pass their lips to Stiles personally without a damn good reason.If they don’t speak, there’s a far less chance Stiles will crack completely and accidentally magic one of them straight into a grave.

Because today?Today was almost _very_ bad. 

He doubts Kira knows just how far off center his magic was right then.He himself was angry, but his magic (his subconscious?) was _furious_.The magic wanted to strip Scott of any memory of Stiles _entirely_ and he doesn’t think his magic would have cared too much if Scott even _survived_ the process.

Today he could have made Melissa a childless mother.

He binds it to another amulet, this time fused into hard opal with a layered glyph.The stone is small enough to maybe weave into a ring or something, if he ever finds the time.He may do the same with his crystal shield instead of leaving it dangling on a cord or rattling around in his pocket.If he can find some old brass, he could work them all into a manly bracelet, bind all his standard spells into it and lose the multitude of necklaces. 

Another time, though.Tonight is for his anti-Hale pack.It’s for their own good, after all.  He smirks a little darkly at that; ‘for their own good’ is a concept they’re all too familiar with.  Kira cackles a little when he explains his evening plans because the irony isn’t lost on her, either.

 

 

 


	8. Deaton and the Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the Hale pack are a bunch of morons.
> 
> And even Deaton gets angry sometimes.

***********

His eyes were _what_?”

“ _On fire_ ,” Scott repeats, shivering.  Scott didn’t think werewolves even _could_ feel the cold this way, but it’s as much an emotional ache as a physical one and Scott hasn’t been able to get warm since he’d broken rank and confronted Stiles in the parking lot.  “Like, not his whole eyeball, but his pupils?  And not red, but gold and amber and, like... ember?  Orange-y?  It was freaky as hell.  Something got to him.  We made him leave and now something’s possessing him!”  Scott shivers some more, burrowing under a heavy blanket with a worried-looking Isaac.

“And just how or why, exactly, were you close enough to see his eyes on fire?” Derek shoots back, eyes narrowed with suspicion.  Scott’s shivering pauses long enough for him to look guilty.  “Damnit Scott, why?  Was he in trouble?  Hurt?  About to hurt someone?  Because it didn’t sound like it from here when his voice echoed from _absolutely nowhere_ ordering us all to stay the fuck away!”

“Yeah, _that_ was weird,” Cora mutters grumpily, upset at having been included in that edict.  Beyond _not_ beating her brother senseless for his well-intended idiocy in kicking out someone as unique as Stiles, Cora’s done _nothing_ wrong.

“He smelled a little like he joined another pack!  And the girl he was with smelled a lot like him and  _is_  fromanother pack!  I just asked her what she was doing there since it isn’t her territory!”  Scott chatters out.

Derek does his damndest to _not_ pummel his betas, even on his bad days.   _Especially_ on his bad days.  But by enduring this idiot without bloodshed, Derek might qualify for _sainthood_ by the time Scott graduates.

“Scott, did you hear nothing I said on the subject of neutral territories we went over two days ago, or were you just too busy memorizing Isaac’s eyelashes?”  Peter, thankfully, isn’t even remotely worried about his own sainthood or lack thereof.  He’s been disqualified for decades.

“Uhhhh....” Scott frowns.

Peter and Derek share a commiserating sort of look.  He’s both their collective burdens, really.  Peter’s, as the moron who bit him and Derek’s, as the moron who adopted him as pack.

Cora, the completely faultless (in terms of Scott, at least) Hale, was free range though and slaps him hard upside the back of his head on her way by to the kitchen, rolling her eyes all the while.

“Ow!  What?!  Is no one else concerned that his eyes were _on fire_?  He’s possessed!  Why is that not the focus here?”  Scott still looks a fraction guilty, but looks more genuinely concerned for Stiles.

“He’s not possessed, Scott,” Peter informs him with an eye roll of his own.  “He’s a _mage_.  The only thing possessing him is magic and visa-versa.”

No one else had braved entering this conversation until now.  “Wait, what?” Derek asks in unison with Erica and Allison.  Erica was all confused surprise but Allison looked a little wide-eyed and suspicious, like a vital piece of a puzzle had just fallen into her lap.

“Wait, he’s a mage?  Seriously?  What color were the flames, Scott — _Scott!_ ”  Allison snapped her fingers in front of his face twice to knock him out of his childish grumpitude.  “You said gold, amber, and ember?  So, autumn colors?  Whoa.... Wow.”  She’s blinking into space, mind churning.  “A Red Mage?”  She turns to Peter and squints at him for a long second.  “ _You knew_ ,” she accuses.

Everyone in the room pauses for a second to stare at Peter.

“I saw him late last week,” Peter reports after a moment, shrugging a little uncomfortably, “at the cemetery while I was visiting.  I believe he was visiting his mother just prior to finding me.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Derek grinds out.  If it’s Stiles-related, he was supposed to know about it.  It’s a rule.  Derek had _made_ it a rule since they’d all begun having nightmares, starting the same week Derek had exiled him for his own damn good.  “And what did he say?” He demands, sounding a little childish.  (And maybe a little desperate.)  Derek never would have expected the Stiles-shaped void in the pack after Derek had forced him out, but they all felt it.   _Any_ news about Stiles was welcome news - good or bad.

Peter purses his lips.  He’d been hoping to avoid this conversation, preferably forever.  “Because,” he says, also a little childishly, followed by: “Not much.”

Derek glowers, eyes flickering a little faintly, but doesn’t get to the reprimanding stage since Cora pipes in, dropping back into her seat, granola bar in hand.  “I knew he was a mage.”  Everyone stills again, eyes pinballing around the room between Derek, Peter, Cora and Allison who clearly knows about more than just werewolves.

“ _How_?” Derek demands, exasperated and annoyed.  “ _And since when_?”

Cora sighs, shifting a little and studies her granola bar.  “When I went to see Deaton about you, back when you were,“ she waves a vague hand at him, “slightly off your rocker and Uncle Peter, when he was still missing, like more than a month ago.  I called Stiles to meet me because I needed advice and still wasn’t comfortable with Deaton alone.  We met, he listened, I made the mistake of asking him if he was alright, and his eyes flared for, like, a split second and told me yes, and that was the _last_ personal question he’d be answering.  

“But I _had_ to ask.  I mean, he looked awful when he gave me a lift here, but he looked on the edge of _death_  at Deaton’s.”  Cora shrugs.  “I needed an independent opinion, and all of you have mentioned at some point the qualities he brought into the pack.  I needed that kind of viewpoint... and I knew I could trust him.”

“He’s been possessed this _whole time_?” Scott rasps, eyes wide and horrified.

This time, _Lydia_ smacks him, to Jackson’s amusement.

“Cut it out!  We made him leave and something happened to him; is no one else concerned?”

“No one gets possessed by a mage, you moron,” Lydia grits out.  “It’s genetic.  It’s just dormant in their bloodline — but they can become mages, over time.”  Lydia looks more distraught than annoyed.  “To become a full mage is usually a right of passage sort of thing, though... like the endurance of great suffering, I think.”

“That’s not the only way,” Peter adds, solemnly.  “They can die and survive, or they can just ‘become’ like a werewolf True Alpha.  ‘Through immeasurable strength in the face of terrible evil’, if I recall correctly.  So, either terrible evil, which would be my guess,” Peter shrugs, but his eyes are serious and a little angry, “or the endurance of great suffering,” he says, quieter.

“Why not died without dying, or whatever?” Isaac asks.  “I mean,” he shrugs when shocked eyes swing his way, “would anyone even know, if he survived anyway?”

“He didn’t die,” Scott snarls, eyes flashing gold and angry with his teeth going a little sharp.  “We would know!   _I would know!”_  

No one corrects him when he gets like this anymore.  Scott, with a few loose threads of control is almost as volatile as Derek some days and has been getting progressively worse since they’d exiled Stiles from the pack and their lives.  Or, more pointedly, since Scott had lost the ability to spy on his former friend since Stiles had stopped going home for whatever reason.

Lydia sighs, eyes lifting to the ceiling like she’s either praying for patience or praying for courage.  “He may have, actually,” she says quietly.

“ _What?!_ ” Derek and Scott snarl out in unison.

“When Jackson was in L.A. for his aunt’s funeral and my mother was at a weekend retreat spa.  Around Stiles’ birthday, I guess?  I dreamt I screamed his name, but—“ Lydia shrugs a tiny shrug, biting her lip. “But I thought it was another nightmare,” she whispers, voice cracking.  “It’s just— he _couldn’t_ have died!  Right?  I mean— it’s _Stiles!_ He didn’t... he didn’t die?”  Except Lydia, just now, _knows._ And everyone looking at her can see it as Lydia’s eyes well up with a shaky breath and Jackson tugs her closer under his arm.  

“How?” Boyd asks softly.  Lydia shrugs again, wiping her eyes.

“There was no ‘vision’ in the dream.  Just... almost pitch dark and shadowed... and the sound of gurgling and, like... slapping?  Metal clinking?”  Her brows are furrowed, trying to put it into words but heartily wishing she’d never remembered at all.  However it happened, it hadn’t been peaceful.

“Where?” Jackson asks quietly.  “Do you know?  Maybe the where could tell us how.  Or why, maybe.”  A full summer without the spaz around had opened Jackson’s eyes a little.  Because a full summer without him there made them all miserable and disjointed.  Even Jackson.

Scott looks a little green.  “You said his birthday?  That’s the same time Mom got all weird about the Sheriff — when Stiles ran away.”

Derek’s eyes flicker off-red, just a little.  “The sheriff?  His _father_?!”  From the corner of his eye, Derek sees Isaac curl up a bit, leaning into Allison.

Derek wishes he could say he’s surprised, if that’s what happened.  The sheriff’s an angry man.  According to Peter, a little unstable too, when he’s been drinking.  But Stiles is alive and the sheriff is away on business, somewhere.  Melissa wouldn’t say anything more than that before she’d angrily shut the door in Derek’s face when he’d gone to check up on him.

“He didn’t run away,” Lydia corrects with a huff, wiping another small tear from her cheek.  “He left— he moved out.”

“There’s a difference?”  Cora asks, eyebrow hiking up.

“You can move out when you’re old enough to vote,” Peter supplies.

Eyes do the pinball round again, this time in shocked confusion.

“Wait, he’s 18?” Erica demands.  “How?”

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Scott growls.  “He’s our age!  Always has been!   _I_ would know!”

“Not according to his school records,” Lydia said, shrugging at the floor and looking a little guilty for ever having pried into them.  “But, why _would_ he tell us?  He’d be uncomfortable if everyone knew. It’s why I’ve never said anything.  If I were him, I would probably just let people assume what they would, too.”  Allison nods with second-hand commiseration.  

“So... now what?” Boyd asks quietly.

“Now,” Allison says, voice heavy and her eyes set on Derek, “.....we get him to stop whatever he’s doing to both us and the town, or make him show us how to stop it, if he can’t do it himself.  And we make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.”

Everyone, barring Peter and Scott, nods solemnly, if not sadly.  Peter mimes zipping his lips to a horrified-looking Scott and subtly tapped his cellphone before mouthing ‘Deaton’ and ‘later’.  This had the potential to get ugly.

*******

Thankfully, it never got ugly.  Not exactly.  Because Deaton didn’t have any appointments that afternoon and found a rare spare moment to stop by the loft after both Scott and Peter had called, sounding very concerned for their pack mates.

Deaton himself had known this particular meeting had been coming, but was surprised at the timing.  He’d assumed Peter, at least, would’ve broken ranks and come to see him before now.  He could hear the discord of arguing voices the entire ride up the elevator and was openly frowning by the time he politely knocked on the loft door.

“—need to find a way to bind him, maybe?”

”—no proof!”

“—no proof?  How can you say that?  Pay attention!”

“He’s not responsible, you _have_ to know that!”

“—reasonable!  This isn’t—“

Deaton can only catch a few sparse phrases while looking past an openly rattled and grim-looking Peter who lets him enter, but Deaton definitely catches Allison’s final words.

“Whatever we have to do.  Whatever it takes; we don’t _let_ him hurt anyone else!”

Deaton’s breath pauses on a sharp inhale, then releases with his faint magic to catch the wind from the open balcony door, drags it through the room and lets it sweep past to slam the heavy entry door shut behind him, the crash echoing loudly enough to have everyone freeze silent and stare.  Scott looks both wide-eyed and a little grateful.

“If this is about Mr. Stilinski, I must warn you, Miss Argent, no harm will come to him from _any_ member of this pack while I still have _breath in my body_ ,” he states quietly.  He wonders a little abstractly if he looks quite as furious as he feels.  

“That young man has put his life on the line to either actively help or save the lives of _everyone_ in this room.  Everyone in this _town_ , in fact,” he says firmly, eyes shifting from one pack member to another, ending with Derek, still the very picture of his mother.  “If he comes to harm from any of you, any _single_ one of you... I’ll use whatever magic I can muster, to the last drop, to urge the land itself to banish you _all_.  You will never feel welcome here again.  And considering how much he’s done and how little you all have, I have no doubt the land’s magic will side with _him_.”

The room is dead silent, save for Scott’s slightly chattering teeth, though they’re chattering through a relieved smile.

“I _knew_ he didn’t do this,” he says haltingly with another wrack of shivers.  “Well,” Scott corrects, “not hurt anyone.  Make me cold like an ice bath?  This, he _did_ do.  Somehow.  And he scared he hell out of me,” he mutters, then shivers again, clinging to Isaac’s hand where it’s wrapped around his shoulder, even while Isaac looks at him with exasperated, fond annoyance.

Deaton sighs.  “And what did he say to you, Scott, when this,” Deaton waves a hand toward him, “happened?”

Scott frowns, looking miserably at the floor.  “That I had no right to look betrayed,” he mutters quietly.  “But he and that new girl smell so much alike, I thought he’d joined another pack—“

“Ah,” Deaton interrupts, then sighs again.  “Hot chocolate should help,” he informs Scott.  “Good for heartbreak, or so I hear.”

Everyone just blinks at him for a long second.

“Why would Scott feel heartbroken?” Erica demands, glaring a little confused at both Isaac and Allison.

“Why would Mr. Stilinski feel betrayed?” Deaton counters, sounding more judgmental than he’d like.  Guilty eyes shifting down and away is the only answer he gets before Isaac, looking as miserable as Scott, slinks into the kitchen to root around in a cupboard.

“None of this started until we made him leave the pack,” Allison insists angrily.  “You can’t be sure—“

“Yes,” Deaton snaps impatiently, “ _I can_.  And it began more than four months ago, just after that incident at the warehouse rave that almost found Scott dead, Miss Argent.  That’s when my nightmares began.  As did Stiles’.”

“Wait, wha—“ Derek’s pacing forward, eyes flickering faintly and fists clenched.  Stiles was right about this, too, it seems.  Derek’s clearly much more affected than any of the others.

“Derek, please.  Sit.  All of you, please, let us sit and I’ll explain what I can.”  Cora, openly anxious for _any_ kind of explanation, is the first to drop onto the arm of the large, squashy chair Lydia and Jackson are already sharing, followed by Boyd, Erica, Allison, Peter and Derek.  Isaac finishes off the group when he returns with a steaming mug of sweetness for Scott, who gulps it half down and looks astonished when his chill almost instantly vanishes and he can shrug off the heavy blanket and curl into his two lovers.

“When my nightmares began, they were subtle—” Deaton begins, somewhat uncomfortably, and is almost instantly interrupted.

“Wait.  Just, why?  Why now?” Derek demands from his single seat in the circle of sofas and armchairs.  “Why haven’t you told us about Stiles until now?”

“I’m telling you very _little_  about Stiles now, except what you already know, can easily deduce, or as it affects my personal explanation.  I won’t betray his trust that way any more than I would betray yours to him or anyone else.  But about my own experiences and what little I know about why any of this has come about?  That I will tell you.  

“And I didn’t come to you with this, Derek, for the same reason you never came to me about it.  There was no pressing need, until very recently.”  Derek glowers at him, his expression the mirror of his father, though his eyes were thankfully steady green once again.

“As I said, this has been happening since the incident at the warehouse.  Subtle at first, then less so.  I found that sleeping potions worked for short spans, but none worked well.  And my dreams, though they lacked depth, seemed important, somehow.  Like there may have been clues hidden within.  Not unheard of for a Druid.  So I mostly just studied them, from what little I could remember.  

“But it seems that Mr. Stilinski is even more sensitive to the echoes of this entity than even I.  His dreams were evidentially more violent in nature, or so he’s surmised.  But there was a lot of violent things occurring all around him then, so he brushed it off as mild trauma.”

“He never said anything,” Scott declares.  “ _That_ , I would’ve remembered.”  Deaton would like to believe that, but isn’t overly hopeful.  Scott had a great many things to concern himself with at the time— Stiles rarely seemed to be one of them, though.

“As I said, there was a lot going on.  I’d been having troubled sleep, even before the real nightmares began.  I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone either.”  ‘Troubled’ was putting it mildly.  Laura’s death has sparked a series of memorable nightmares, none quite prophetic, but still... Not something he’d been comfortable discussing; not even with Satomi.

“He wouldn’t have said anything anyway, though,” Lydia adds with quiet certainty.  “He might’ve griped about ridiculous things, but never anything personal.”  Lydia, to Deaton, looks rather small today.  Perhaps she’s finally figured a few things out.  About Stiles, specifically.  He’s amazed it’s taken someone so smart and so powerful this long at all to pull the pieces together.

“The timing of all of this, though...” Allison says, frowning.  “It’s strange.”  Seeing Deaton’s unblinking stare, she hastens to add with an odd note to her voice, “Not that it’s his fault!  It’s all just... _strange_.”

“Beacon County comes by it’s name honestly,” Deaton reminds them all.  “An instinctive draw to the supernatural.  The nexus of ley lines beneath this area is pollen to the bee.  It always has been.  And some, more than others, absorb it’s energies— we feel them on a level not unlike an alpha would feel the echoed moods of a pack member, regardless of where they are.”  Derek frowns at this.

“But he was born here,” Derek says with a frown.  “Why is this happening to him now?”

“He’s... unique,” Deaton confesses cautiously.  “And also quite private,” he finishes pointedly.  

“What’s happening to the pack is a delayed reaction to what’s been happening everywhere in the area.  Also, not his fault.  But he, like me, senses it deeply and emotionally.  It feels like some sort of spirit, but not.  And it seems to thrive on darkness and dream and it, and it’s hunger, are growing stronger.”

“But what _is_ it?” Erica asks, her expression (as it is on rare occasion), deadly serious. “And how do we stop it?”  

Deaton sighs, feeling weary.  “We don’t know,” he confesses bluntly.  “On either count.”

“But,” Scott reiterates loudly, “it’s _not_ Stiles.  He has nothing to do with it.”  Allison lowers her eyes and looks away from Scott, frowning.  She’s obviously had a bad time with it too, Deaton surmises, if the dark circles under her eyes beneath her smudged makeup are any indication.

Cora scoffs from her perch beside Lydia.  “You didn’t sound so certain yesterday, Scott.  Way to be consistent!”  Scott scowls at her, even while Erica smirks her agreement.

“He’s a mage now,” Derek interrupts before a childish shouting match can fire up.  “Can you tell us how?” Derek looks like he’s holding in a hundred similar questions but isn’t up to asking them.

“No,” Deaton states firmly with a frown.  “That’s not for me to discuss.”

“What about that girl from school?” Boyd asks quietly.  “Kira?  I think?”

“Ah,” Deaton murmurs.  “It’s quite normal for a student to transfer schools to attend one a parent works in.  The Yukimuras are part of the Ito pack of Beacon Valley.  They’ve been established there for going on fifty years.”  Derek seems surprised.  “Satomi, Kira’s grandmother, was good friends with Talia.”  Peter is nodding, eyes clearing with realization.

“Kira?” Cora asks, looking excited.  “We used to play together when we were little!  Before they moved away!”

“To New York, if memory serves,” Peter agrees.  “But I assume the bulk of their pack have been called home to arms until this unknown factor is handled?” He inquires.

Deaton nods.  “Most, yes.”

“She’s not human,” Jackson blurts.  “But she’s something?  Kira, I mean.”

“Like her mother, she’s a kitsune.”  Derek’s eyes finally light with recognition and he nods.

“I didn’t even know there was another pack here!  Are there more?” Erica inquires.

“Other werewolves, certainly.  Other packs?  Possibly,” Deaton evades smoothly.  Derek’s eyes narrow a little.

“But you won’t break others’ trust either,” Peter concludes, and looks unsurprised when Deaton shakes his head. “But the Ito pack knows about this new... creature?”

“Possibly a creature, but yes.  Satomi and I have been looking into it, as best we can, but there’s little to go on so far.  Scott, has your mother noted anything odd at the hospital lately?  People with unusual symptoms, beyond exhaustion and malnutrition?  New symptoms, that is.”  He’s been meaning to ask.

“Uhh,” Scott frowns, thinking.  “No?  But we haven’t had much time to talk lately.  She’s been working a lot more, though— _way_ more patients than usual.   The health officials were sure it was some new virus or something causing it, but no one’s actually identified one yet.”

“Considering the scale of affliction, I’m sure the CDC would’ve been here by now otherwise,” Peter adds.  “They do love hunting down their ‘bugs’.”

“Oh, they’ve been and gone,” Scott admits.  “A few months ago.”

“You’re just _now_ mentioning this?” Derek grinds out.

“A few months ago!”  Scott defends.  “Bad dreams don’t equal CDC!  None of us knew there was anything really wrong yet!”

Derek concedes that, reluctantly, it seems.  Deaton doesn’t envy him, just now.  He’s obviously taken on the bulk of the symptoms for his pack and it’s wearing him visibly thin.  Dangerously so.

“Scott, could you have her keep us appraised?  We feel that it’s evolving, somehow.  We all need to be more watchful.”

“Yeah, sure.  How can we help?” Scott asks, looking glum and desperate.  “Because there has to be something!  Even beyond us, people are suffering.  Last week mom said another one had actually dropped dead in the ER waiting room for seemingly no reason!  It’s like the djinn all over again!”

“But not djinn,” Peter adds.  “These newer bodies haven’t had much of any kind of scent at all, and I can’t believe there’s a djinn anywhere that can affect an area as large as Beacon Hills.”

“Beacon County,” Deaton corrects.  Everyone stares in silence, dumbfounded.  “The whole of Beacon County, as best we can tell. This goes far beyond just Beacon Hills.”  Deaton sighs.  “But,” he says, “we’re still in the watch and wait phase, unfortunately.  Until we can correctly identify whatever this is, there’s little more for you to do than damage control.  If you see someone on the edge, urge them to leave town, even if only for a short time, to refresh themselves.  My weekly visits to the Chase County horse ranches help to recharge me, just from simply being outside the effected area for a time.”

“Your Wednesday trips are a lot longer than they used to be,” Scott remarks.  

Deaton smiles a little.  “I may find time for a power nap, while I’m in the area,” he concedes.

“Not a bad idea,” Allison agrees.  “Maybe we should all—“

“ _No!_ ” comes a chorus of negation.

Deaton is unsurprised, but explains to a wide-eyed Allison.  “The wolves won’t feel comfortable leaving the territory unprotected while it’s actively under attack this way.”  

Derek nods agreement, expression fixed and angry.  

“You, however,” Deaton suggests, “and your father may want to find a few hours a week outside the county, Miss Argent.  You have a number of hunters to lead, after all.  No army should follow a general suffering from extreme exhaustion, regardless of how mild the outward symptoms.”

“Symptoms?” Allison exclaims, sounding incredulous and looking affronted.

“Were you not threatening “whatever it takes” toward an innocent when I walked through the door?  For the average human, ‘whatever it takes’ to stop a personal threat is quite dangerous.  You, Miss Argent, are not average.  You’re already dangerous, even without a group of ready and well-trained hunters to manage.  Every one of your hunters needs the same regiment of honest rest, preferably before the streets run red.”  Allison still looks irked at both the personal implication and the advice, but nods shortly.

“Mom’s been doing weekly shopping trips in Chase county for the last month,” Lydia adds, then grins.  “She says she naps through half her day spa facials.”  Jackson chuffs from beside her.

“Maybe I’ll send my mom with her.  She’s been cranky lately.”

“Everyone’s cranky lately,” Erica points out, then to Deaton: “That’s part of it, isn’t it?”

“Very much so.  We suspect it’s a symptom in itself.  It enhances whatever a person’s mood is.  A normally happy person can become quite manic, I’d think.  Worried becomes paranoid.  Unhappy becomes severely depressed.”  Deaton winces internally, recalling Stiles’ own heartbreaking admission.  “Angry becomes, at times, violent fury.”  It worries Deaton that so many in the room subtly shift in their seats, deliberately _not_ looking at their Alpha, who _is_ openly wincing.  Deaton sighs again.  

“Derek, this isn’t just happening to you, nor to just your pack. But they’ll all feel the echo of what you do.  I’d advise meditation, if you can manage it, before it gets to feeling like too much.  At worst, come see me and I’ll have something to help you sleep and a restorative ready.  I hadn’t thought to bring any today.”

“Stiles’ restorative?” Lydia asks with a twitch of lips before openly grinning at Derek.  “Please have someone video it, if you do?” She asks, sweetly.

Erica cackles.  “Oh my god, Derek stoned?   _Yes_ to the video.”  Derek rolls his eyes with a patient huff.

“I’m not getting stoned for your entertainment.”

“I doubt it would have that effect on you in your present state, Derek,” Deaton supplies.  “But I’m certain it will help.”

“I dunno,” Erica says grinning.  “That stuff’s pretty potent.”

“Far more so than mine would be,” Deaton admits.  “He has a natural talent for it.”  If they hadn’t already figured _that_ much out, Deaton might seriously consider moving on to another, less dense, pack.

“There’s a lot more to him than any of us ever knew, isn’t there?” Boyd rumbles to Deaton quietly.  “We just never saw it until he wasn’t there anymore to show us.”  Deaton thins his lips, a little angry, but nods.

“Quite,” he bites out, then forces the anger back, lets it dissipate a little and stands to leave.

“Maybe—“ Jackson mumbles, eyes shifting from Derek to the floor.  “Maybe we should talk to him again.”

“No,” Derek snaps out, eyes flickering an off-shade of red again before he clenches them shut.  “No, he _needs_ to stay out of this.” Scott’s nodding hearty agreement off to the side while Derek speaks.  “It’s—“

“Alpha Hale,” Deaton grinds out, his own anger sparking again.  “Hear me on this, if you hear nothing else.”  Derek glares, even while he forces the red of his eyes away.  

“He _can’t_ stay out of it.  Not because I say so,” Deaton hastens to add when the red flares back in, “but because he’s _already_ in it.  And very likely has been since the moment he was _conceived._

”He’s something of a beacon himself, in case you haven’t noticed.  Or did you think it was pure chance that a feral omega happened upon him while he was out for a jog in an open city park in the middle of the day?  Or that your sister just happened across one of the few people who could provide the information and assistance she needed when she first returned?”

“I still have no idea how I got so close to the road,” Cora throws in. “I was cutting through the preserve toward the house on two days of no sleep and then I hear a car and I trip over a root and then he trips over me.  But he—“ Cora stops short, eyes calming with the memory.  

“I felt _safe_ the second he showed up.  Like... like he was the obvious welcoming party meant to usher me back to you, Derek.”  Her eyes are all sorrow and re-found peace when she looks between her brother and uncle.  Then her tone cools.  

“So color me very, _very_ surprised to find he wasn’t even considered _pack_.”  Nearly everyone openly winces, Derek included, while Peter himself just glares at the coffee table and Lydia glares a little at Derek.

“He has that effect on most people,” Deaton says, hands in pockets.  “Even if they can’t recognize it.”

Derek remains silent, but joins his uncle in coffee table glaring.

“Any or all of you, please call me if you notice anything new.  And Derek?”  Deaton waits motionless until Derek glowers at him.  “Meditation.  Or a restorative.  Preferably both.”  Derek’s jaw clenches but he nods shortly.  

Deaton sighs, and sees himself out.  You can lead a wolf to water, but...


	9. A friend by any other name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns that he’s got more people in his corner than he knew.

 

*********

“Zero hour Psychology it is, then,” Kira agrees and she and Stiles both pull out pens to fill in their forms.

“Well, I already know how to finance, to an extent; or at least budget.  This’ll be more useful, I think.  If I manage to survive til college, hopefully I can save a few bucks and just shrink myself out of the inevitable PTSD,” Stiles mutters grumpily.

Stiles is not having the best morning, having slept worse than usual and then woken almost too late to make his first class on time - only to find a number of shriveled and dried out snakes _in his tent_ with him and a curious millimeter-thin break in his ash barrier.  Unnerved doesn’t even  _begin_ to describe his rude awakening.  

But then he gets to school and discovers the bulk of the Hale pack all giving him sad and disturbed looks while they hallway-stalk him from one class to the next, sitting as close to him as they can get away with, which sets Stiles’ teeth on edge and even through his slight chill, their near-pushy proximity has his skin crawling a little. 

The alpha twins must have caught on to Stiles’ discomfort because they (thankfully) planted themselves like a shield between Kira and Stiles and the Hale betas in their English class.  Stiles had finally grown tired of it after that and given Scott the unseen slip via the restroom before lunch and now hid in the library with Kira - trying to thaw his chilly core for Kira’s sake, if not his own.

Kira frowns at him.  “Hey, don’t say that.  We’re _both_ surviving long enough to make it to college, and decades after that,” she insists and eyes him cautiously.  “Are you alright?  You seem a little...” She lets the thought trail and just leans into his shoulder, silently supportive, while finishing her form.

“Yeah,” he sighs a few minutes later.  “Sorry, just... bad morning.  Something got through my ash line and left a few disturbing little gifts in my tent with me.”

Kira startles, wide-eyed.  “Your ash lines are the equivalent of magical titanium,” she hisses quietly as the librarian stalks by.  “Any idea what could’ve done it?”

He shakes his head, signing off his form, then expertly forges his father’s signature, though he’s not certain he actually needs it, being 18 already.  “No, but the break was paper thin, so... a spell of some kind, maybe?”

“Sounds like, if it’s paper thin.  What was in your tent?”

So he tells her about his whole sorted morning and she shudders with sincere revulsion over the snake he hadn’t seen lurking dead in his shoe til he’d tried to put it on.  They both scowl when Lydia and Isaac stride through the door to apparently stalk Stiles’ lunch hour, too.

Except maybe not stalk. Not with stealth, anyway.

Lydia b-lines straight for their table and stops short, mouth opening, then snapping shut with frustration a second later.  Stiles smirks (internally) a little vindictively.  Kira smirks openly, but only a little.  An eye for an eye.  Isaac stands beside Lydia, looking uncomfortable at even being in the same _room_ with Stiles, for some reason.  Stiles goes a little colder, eliciting a small shiver from Kira beside him.  Probably not a good thing his internal chill is now emanating outward, but he can’t really sweat it at the moment.

Lydia tries to speak twice more before grinding out a tiny growl.  Stiles merely gives her a blank stare until her gaze switches to Kira with a faux-friendly smile.

“I don’t think we’ve met before.  You’re Kira, yes?  I’m Lydia,” she says confidently with a little hair flip.

“Oh, I know,” Kira remarks dryly.  “Is there something you need?  If it’s pack related, your alpha will have to speak to mine, and if it’s not...” She lets the thought complete itself, unimpressed with Lydia’s attitude.

Kira, Stiles thinks a little randomly, might well be the best thing to ever happen to him in this school.  He remembers thinking something similar about Lydia herself, just last year.  He’s not sure now how he ever could’ve been so naive as to think he’d been anything like a genuine friend in her eyes.  He’s pretty sure she’s finally put the more disturbing pieces about him and his traumatizing summer together and he doesn’t want whatever pity for him is lurking under that slightly cracking confident demeanor. 

“Well, I’d like to speak to my friend,” Lydia supplies and now Stiles scoffs internally.  Does she really think she’s fooling anyone these days?

Kira leans back in her chair cockily and Stiles grins a little (also internally) at the way Isaac nervously shuffles his feet back an inch when Kira’s fingers spark as she clenches her hands into fists in a tiny show of power.  “I’m sure you have a lot of friends you can speak to,” Kira says easily, chin nodding to Isaac.  “It’s still a free country, the last I checked; you should feel free to talk to them all you want.”

“I meant Stiles,” Lydia snaps.  “ _Obviously_.”

“Well,” Kira says with her own fake smile melting into something colder, “I seriously doubt you have a _friend”_ Kira stresses the word, “named Stiles, (Lydia flinches) but if you mean the cute guy next to me, by all means!”  

Now Stiles frowns internally.  He _really_ doesn’t want to get into this.  Not here, now, there, or ever, in any way for any reason.  Because there’s a chance Lydia could figure out what the spell is and a way to either undo it or bypass it.  Fuck knows she’s (usually) smart enough and the power of a banshee is both flexible and formidable.  He leans into Kira’s shoulder a little to encourage caution.

“I can’t, as you well know,” Lydia grinds out.  “And I need to.”

“Well it’s not something I’m in control of, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Kira snaps back.  “And there’s a big difference between ‘need to’ and ‘want to’.  But knowing Stiles, I’d bet if it’s a genuine emergency, you’ll find the words easily spoken,” Kira concludes.  “Otherwise, I really wouldn’t hold your breath, if I were you.”

Lydia huffs and Stiles sees something a little desperate in her eyes, which is _so_ confusing, because Kira’s right about the spell.  A true emergency _will_ break it, and there’s clearly not one happening now.  Unless it’s something academically mandatory.  This is a school, after all, and there’s not much he can do about the classes he and various members of the Hale pack already share together.  Stiles sighs, eyes closing as he gathers his thoughts and words, then rips off the bandaid.

“There’s nothing for you to say,” he finally says while staring past Lydia’s shoulder, tone bland and bored.  “Nothing I’d want to hear, at any rate.  Whatever it is that has you this desperate to talk to me?  It’s not _my_ problem anymore.  And that was _your_ choice — not mine.” _Now_  he lets his eyes bore into hers.  “So whatever thoughts or words you’re choking on?”  He knows his eyes are flaring fractionally with magic and tries desperately to tamp it back down.  “ _Keep choking_.  Speaking from experience?  You’ll get used to it—eventually.”  

He stands abruptly, shoving everything messily back into his bag and Kira quickly follows suit, her eyes full of worry at whatever she sees in his own.

”Get me out of here,” he gasps to Kira when they reach the door, chest heavy and his throat tightening painfully.  “Please,” he whispers and she nods, wraps her arm around his waist, tugs the bundle of amulets out of his shirt and runs her thumb over his unseen glyph to activate it and guides him away.  

Neither of them see the way Lydia’s shoulders are hitching silently or the way Isaac just wilts where he stands, looking small and ashamed.  Kira might’ve been gratified at the sight, but Stiles would likely break a little more at the unfairness of it all.  Lydia, like Allison, has _always_ had a choice.

And not a one of the four of them see a watchful Jennifer Blake lurking in the stacks, lips curving upward with surprise and eyes darkening with barely suppressed glee.

*********

“It’s just Wu wei zi tea,” Kira’s father insists, his voice kind.  “With honey, to boost your blood sugar levels.  Good for soothing anxiety.”  

Stiles wraps both hands around the mug he’s been handed and sips it slowly, trying to minimize the trembling he can’t quite shake while Kira presses close to his side, warm and oddly solid for such a tiny person.

“Thanks,” he whispers, eyes shut.  “Haven’t had a panic attack in school since the fifth grade.  Was kind of hoping to keep that record going.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Mr. Yukimura insists.  “I’ve actually had a few myself, over the years.”

Fate seemed to think Stiles has finally had enough drama for the morning and deserved a break.  Mr. Yukimura thankfully had a free hour and an empty classroom where Stiles could regain his emotional/mental/magical footing and where exotic, soothing teas just happened to be on hand, as well.  He sips in silence until there’s little but a stray leaf that escaped the infuser left at the bottom.  He stares at it contemplatively while the remaining shivers fade away.

“I don’t know if I can pull off a whole year like this,” he admits at last, feeling ashamed and _so_  off-kilter.  “I can’t—“ The words cut off when a gentle hand grips his shoulder.

“You doubt yourself now, when you’re already low,” Mr. Yukimura says gently.  “But you’re forgetting that you won’t be doing this alone.  You may never need or want to be in a pack again, Stiles, but you have one at your side, even now,” he says, waving his hand gently at Kira.  “And when or if you ever need it?  You’ll have the whole of ours at your back, too.”  Stiles now knows that while she is the image of her mother, Kira’s truly her father’s daughter.  Stiles nods, feeling just a little lighter.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Kira adds, both stubborn and sincere.  “Right here is exactly where I’m supposed to be.  Where I _want_ to be.”  Then she smiles and nudges his shoulder with hers.  “Now, come be my chemistry study buddy.  Mom will _never_ let me live it down if I flunk out of a class my first week.  And ‘never’ for kitsunes is a lonnng time,” she adds.  Stiles huffs at her with a twitch of a smile and nods again.

*********

Harris doesn’t even blink in their direction when Stiles and Kira dash in thirty seconds late and plant themselves guiltily at their lab station, though they have a note from Kira’s dad, just in case.  Stiles is glad not to feel eyes boring into his back anymore, so maybe the pack had finally caught a clue.

The rest of the day goes smoothly, the twins subtly placing themselves in the run line in P.E. between the pack and Stiles, though that’s where Danny is too, so it might be coincidental.  Kira flirts lightly with Aiden, which has Aiden shooting confused ‘wtf’ looks at Stiles, who just shrugs good-naturedly and burns off the last of his anxious buildup by racing them all around the last lap.  He loses by a wide margin, but enjoys Danny’s less supernaturally-speedy company instead, along with Ethan’s, when he drops back to join them and who then somehow manages to work in a hopeful group invite for weekend dancing for Danny, Stiles and Kira.

Stiles feels a tiny bit weird about it, all things (kinky sexual exploits _absolutely_  included) considered, but thinks he may accept.  If Kira is up for it, that is.  So at least the school day ended better than it began.

*********

”This is where you live?” If Kira’s voice hadn’t sounded so positively delighted, Stiles would be tempted to snark back that it’s pretty much what he can afford.  But her eyes are smiling along with the rest of her face when she hops down from the jeep and he’s glad he can finally share this little bit more with her.

”Well, yeah.  I’d offer the grand tour, but... well.  Here’s the tent.  And there’s the fire pit.  And over there is the bush I—“

”NO, no, that’s okay,” she insists, wrinkling her nose and sliding the other direction.  “My nose might not be a wolf nose, but it’s still good enough to pick most things up.”  She rolls her eyes a little.  “Yeesh... _boys.”_

Stiles huffs and shrugs.  “It’s not much, but it just feels right here?  I’ve never felt unsafe, until this morning, and even that still feels more like... a fluke, maybe?”  

He points out the tiny spot of the ash line and she leans in close to see, squinting a bit.

”Well, I think it may have been,” she says with a lip twitch, and pokes under a thatch of leaves, picking up a single stick he hadn’t noticed.  A thin line of ash vanishes and his jaw drops.  

“Wha—“ he begins, then snorts to himself when she starts twisting the stick and sees the bit of fishing line tied to it start rolling up with it.  When it hits the end, fish hook included, he’s mentally kicking himself.  

“If I had to guess, you visited the bush in the dark last night?” Kira asks, holding in a laugh.

”Yeah, yeah. I probably just tripped on it.  Now I feel dumb,” he mutters, scratching his head, embarrassed.

”I don’t know about the snakes, though.  I’m betting what or whoever sent them probably just took quick advantage of the broken barrier.  Even still, I doubt they’d have hurt you when you’re pretty much roosting on a ley line.  With this much magic floating up and around right here, I doubt anything will get through your barrier but you.”  She hands him the makeshift fishing rod with a commiserating look.

”Wait.  Ley line?”

She blinks at him, eyebrows climbing with realization.  “Still so much to learn,” she says, smirking.

An hour later, Stiles is feeling very educated.  Also?  Borderline _stoned_ , with a happy, dopey grin (much like Kira’s) from where they’re both sprawled in the leaves like starfish, riding the high of ley line magic.

”This.  Is.   _Awesome_ ,” he says again.  For the third time.  Or is it the fourth?

”Ohhhhh yeeeaaaah,” she agrees.  

He rolls his head in her direction, feeling weirdly syrup-y, or something.  Even the aura of her fox looks a little stoned.  Which is weird.  But funny.  Although it’s as stationary as she is, it kinda looks like it’s also just rolling/rubbing itself into the leaves and weeds under her.  Like a happy puppy.  He snickers at her a little.

”And these are under all of the county?  How do more people not know?  We should all be magic-stoned, like, _alllll_ the time.”  He’s still kicking himself for never having considered why the county even was a beacon.  He’ll have to ask Deaton about all this.  Maybe raid his library again.

”Well, the lines are thicker in some places, but mostly, yeah.  This one’s deep.  Like, deeeeep-deep.  It’s no wonder you sleep so much better these days.  The one under Grams’ garden is nice?  But it’s way smaller.  And feels like pack.”

Stiles grunts, still grinning, letting the tendrils of his mind just sort of... drift down.  Sooooo deep.  And hey! He knows _that_ energy.  

“Whoa.  What’s that?” Kira asks, her eyes hazy.  “A tree?  How does a tree live in your ley line?  Why isn’t there a tree in _my_  ley line?”

”It’s an awesome tree.  Very pretty.  Rose-blooming northern rowan.  Guess this explains the whole ‘blooming out of season’ thing,” he yawns, then lets his own hazy eyes drift back to himself.  Nifty?  He can see his own aura here. Neeeeeat.  Pretty colors, all blue-ish and gold-ish and he’s got little feeler-thingies, warm and alive and even a thick, sturdy one that’s drifting Kira’s way.  And another bunch of kinda mostly-faded, sad-ish-looking ones drifting back towards Beacon Hills.  He lifts a too-heavy hand and pokes the one that seems to be—

Oh. _Oh._ _Shiiiiiit._

“Okay! Sooo!  Wanna go meet the tree?  I think it’d like visitors. And I haven’t been out there in a few weeks!  You should totally meet the tree,” he blurts out, sitting up and blinking the magic haze out of his eyes, rubbing over his chest with a little frown.  That was... unexpected.

”You okay?” Kira’s frowning curiously at him a little, which is never good.  Her curiosity is almost as Juggernaut-like as his own.

”Yep!  Just... tree?” He asks, a little desperately.  Distraction.  Maybe more for her than himself, but both would be handy right about now.  She’s nodding, a little uncertainly, but doesn’t have the look of ‘going to pry into your aura today’-ness.  Which is good.  He doesn’t really want to think any more serious thoughts today. He’d already gotten an extra helping of those at school.  

So today? Not the best for figuring out why the hell he’d have what he could swear are pack bonds (or the magical equivalent) that he might not have the right to have.  Though he’s pretty sure he knows why nearly all but Kira’s only seem to go _one way_.  Yeah, distraction is good.

*********

School life falls into an easy pattern after that day, with no evil buzz under Stiles’s skin beyond the low-level norm.  Stiles’ social circle of, well, just Kira is more and more frequently expanding to include Danny for lunch study sessions in the library (where they could study their shared zero hour along with their English. Jackson had (seriously, _why?_ ) tried to accompany Danny once, at the beginning of the third week, but left after a mere thirty seconds of Stiles’ blank frozen expression staring him down.  

Kira giggles uncomfortably when Danny tries to weasel Stiles into an explanation, but gives up with an eye roll at Stiles’ blatantly false ‘restraining order’ excuse.  The restraining order has been gone for a while now, and they both know it.  Danny very kindly drops the subject entirely after watching him flinch and go a little pale when asked about Scott’s absence from Stiles’ current social circle.  Stiles suspects Kira was waving somewhere behind him in an ‘abort! abort!’ kind of way.  But to keep the peaceful, easy vibe they’d had going, Stiles offered the semi-truth about his ‘mysterious’ absence that led to his unintended tv-stardom. 

“Dad and I were pushing each others’ buttons, like, _all_ the time.  He was pissed, I was pissed, we both said things we shouldn’t have (sort of true), so I bailed for a few weeks of solitary camping.” (That he never came back from.) Stiles shrugs it off.  “I kept texting though, (Melissa, anyhow) so he knew I was fine.  I just— just wan’t really ready to go back and maybe start world war three in the living room, battle royale-style.  Even he admitted the tv thing was a bit excessive.”

Danny nods with sympathy.  “Nah, I get it.  I took off for a long weekend a few years ago.  My parents both wigged.”

“I’ve got no clue what Mom would do if I tried to pull that off,” Kira adds, head tilted in thought.

Stiles gulps teasingly with wide eyes.  “Warn me beforehand, if you ever do, so I’ve got time to _hide_.”

Kira snorts.  “Mom’s not that scary!” She insists, smacking his arm when he scoffs.

“Yes,” Stiles counters, sincerely.  Then to Danny, “She really, _really_ is.”

“Yikes,” Danny mutters, smothering a grin.  “She give you the shovel talk after you two started dating?”

Stiles and Kira both bark out a laugh, earning them a scowl from the librarian. 

“No,” Stiles whispers, fighting off a chuckle.  “Lovely though she is, Kira’s not my boo.”

“He’s not mine either,” Kira snickers quietly, then lays her head on Stiles’ shoulder and bats her lashes at him with all the faux-drama of a lovelorn sop.  “Despite my efforts, he refuses to confess his love for me.”  Somehow, she says that with a straight face.

Stiles gives her a deadpan expression before palming her entire face with one hand and gently shoving her off his shoulder, inspiring a fresh wave of giggles while Danny huffs a silent laugh.

“No shovel,” he tells Danny, “but still.  Scary is a good word.”

“You didn’t think so until she brought out the sword,” Kira snickers.

“ _Sword??_ ”  Danny’s eyes pop wide.  “She threatened you with _a sword??_ ”

“No, no,” Stiles shakes his head, smiling.  “She and Kira were sword fighting.”  

Danny eyebrows climb and he looks at Kira for conformation.

“Family tradition,” Kira says with a shrug.  (It’s sort of true, anyhow.  For a kitsune, at least.)  “Mom and Grams even taught my dad the basics.”

Danny’s eyes dart back to Stiles, then to Kira again.  “Your grams and your parents and you can all _sword_ _fight_?  Yeaaaah,” he agrees.  “Scary.”

“You’ve got noooooo idea, man,” Stiles says while Kira rolls her eyes.

“Huh,” Danny sits back and chews on his lip for a second, looking like he’s sort of warring with his thoughts before leaning back in close.  “She’s not a werewolf too, is she?” He asks outright, like it’s the most natural question ever.

Kira goes wide-eyed, jaw slack before trying to fake her way out of her own reaction.  “ _Werewolves?_  Why would you—“

Danny cuts her off, unimpressed.  “It’s Beacon Hills.  I doubt there’s ever been a genuine animal attack that’s made the papers, and Scott isn’t nearly as subtle on the lacrosse field as he seems to think he is.  Also? I’m not _blind_. This town is made of mysteries, enigmas, and tacos.  So please, guys.  Don’t play me for a fool.   _Please._ ”

Stiles sighs and Kira nods to him with a tiny shrug.

“I’m a kitsune.  Like my mom,” Kira says softly.  ”Dad’s human, though.”

Danny’s eyes find Stiles, who also shrugs.  “I’m a mage, apparently.”  Danny’s eyebrows climb again.

“Apparently,” Danny repeats, his voice flat.  “You’re _apparently_  Harry Potter?”

“Mage, not wizard,” Stiles corrects.

“What’s he difference?”

“I don’t need a wand?”  Stiles shrugs at Danny’s wide eyes.  “Well, it’s not like I ever even _knew_ before this summer,” he defends, shifting in his seat.  Who knew spilling a secret could feel this awkward?  “I mean, it’s apparently always been there?  But, like, you have to be aware of magic before you can wield it.”

Danny blinks at him. “Huh.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles agrees.

“Tell me everything.  Seriously, _everything_.”  Danny’s voice has a weirdly harsh edge to it that makes Stiles and Kira both frown.

“Honestly? I would. Like, actually, _really_ would,” Stiles assures, “but not everything is mine to tell.”

Danny sits back again with a huff.  “Is it the reason that Jackson either ignored or bailed on me for half the summer?  The reason people have been dropping left and right for the last few months?  Because if so, I _need_ to know.”  

Stiles frowns at the look of desperate misery Danny’s sporting.  Stiles opens his mouth to gently refuse when—

“My mom’s in the hospital,” Danny breathes out, looking suddenly shaky,  “and there’s nothing I can do but watch her waste away, little by little.”  Stiles sucks in a breath because he knows this story.  Intimately.  “I need to know so I can find a way to _help_ her.”

Kira reaches over the table and grips Danny’s hand.  “Yes, there’s a certain, weird, X-files factor to everyone getting sick, but I don’t know much about Jackson, except that he’s been a jerk to Stiles in the past.”

“Maybe... it’s really him you need to talk to,” Stiles says carefully.  “Because I can’t say much.  Not about him, anyway.  Or any of the people he hangs out with.  It’s _not_ my place to.”

“My _mom_ ,” Danny stresses, looking a little sick himself.  “She needs help and the doctors are swearing up and down that there’s almost nothing they can do because they don’t know what’s wrong.”

Stiles stills, and tries, for the first time, to deliberately pull out his sixth sense for magical advice.  The answer is obvious and simple.

“Then lets go see her.”

*********

“ _Stiles?!_ ” 

Melissa’s voice is a little rough and a lot surprised when Stiles greets her with a warm hug.

“Hey. Long time, no see.”

Melissa pulls away and smiles up at him, looking more haggard than he’s ever seen her.  Worse even than her divorce, years ago.  “And who’s fault is that, kid?” She demands grumpily, poking him sharply in his ticklish rib and he (maybe) squeaks.  “Don’t make a habit of that, mister.”

He huffs and rubs at his tender side.  “Sorry,” he says sincerely.  “Though I was planning on swinging by soon anyhow, so.  Hi!”

Melissa rolls her eyes, then lifts her brows when she leans around him.

“Oh!  Right, sorry,” he says, turning and stepping back.  Kira?  Danny?  Melissa McCall.  We’re here to visit Danny’s mom for a bit?”

Danny holds up the little vase of flowers he’d picked up on the way over with a worried smile.

“Oh,” Melissa says, quieter, then heaves in a breath.  “You’ll need to speak to your dad first, hon,” she tells Danny, who goes sheet white.  “She’s alive!” Melissa rushes to say, suddenly standing next to him and steadying him when he sways, then tugs him toward the closest bank of chairs and sits him down.  “She’s alive,” she says again, “but still very ill.  But she had a bad night last night and they’ve temporarily moved her up to the psychiatric floor.  But it _is temporary_.   When she began lashing out as badly as she was, the only other option was Eichen House.”

“ _Lashing out? How??_ ”  Danny’s eyes are wide and scared.  “She was in a chemical coma!”

Melissa’s nodding agreement, but has her ‘concerned mom/confident nurse’ face on.  “She came out of it, on her own, and no safe amount of sedative worked to ease her back under.  This is still just temporary.  The doctors are working on it as we speak.  They’re not giving up.”

Kira sits beside Danny and clings to his hand, oozing confidence and well-being to calm him.  Danny squeezes her hand back, breath trembling in and out before his eyes land on Stiles.  “Can _you_ do anything?  Can you fix her?”  Melissa frowns at all three of them, confused.

“I don’t know yet,” Stiles answers honestly.  “I need to physically see her, I think.”  And yup, just like that, he knows. He nods again, more certain.  “But I think I can, yeah.  I just need to grab my duffel from the jeep.”

***********

Ten minutes later, Melissa’s trying to explain that while plenty of people make a fair play at sneaking _out_ of the psych ward, no one ever succeeds.  Sneaking _in,_  she insists, is no easier.  She’s told all three of them this three separate times.  But while Danny looks worried, Stiles and his new friend are the total opposite, heads high and strides confident as they head toward the elevator, like veteran soldiers marching toward battle.

“I assume you have a plan, Stiles?” Melissa asks when they cram into the tiny lift and hit the button for the fifth floor.  She hopes so, because after two long days on a collective five hours of sleep, her mind is a little fuzzy.  She may just need to check herself in here soon if she keeps up at the pace she’s been on.  “Really, Stiles,” she says as she steps quietly out of the elevator, waiting for them to follow. “The psych floor is the hospital’s version of Mordor, and you know what they say about that.”

Melissa turns to grouch at him and his uncharacteristic silence and blinks.

Because... the elevator’s _empty_ , even when she sticks her head back in, then out, then turns in a circle in the middle of the hall, staring intently in both directions, completely bewildered.  

Because they’re gone.  

Unless... they were never here.  

Because she’s maybe lost her mind.  Finally.

“I am fifty kinds of impressed,” Stiles says from a mere foot behind her, (she does _not_ screech, damnit) “that you even know what Mordor is.  I feel oddly proud of you right now.”  Stiles is grinning a little when she whips around because yeah, they’re all three right there, exactly where they were definitely _not_ less than ten seconds ago.  Danny’s gaping at Stiles maybe more than Melissa, but Kira’s eyes are are _shiny_ with amusement.  “And yes,” Stiles says. “I have a plan.”

***********

Melissa keys the main Psych Entry door open a minute later, the little vase of flowers in hand, and takes her sweet time leaning against the doorframe to retie her perfectly tied shoelace.  It’s Anna at the desk today who gives her a tired but warm smile.

“Are those for me, Mel?” Anna smiles, spotting the flowers.  “You shouldn’t have!”  Melissa smiles back, shoulders loosening.  Anna is always good company.  She’s also a bit of a rule bender, when it’s for a good cause.

“For Mrs. Mahealani, from her son Danny.  I know she can’t keep them here, but we thought maybe she’d find a bit of peace, knowing her son’s thinking of her.”  

“Oh!  Isn’t that sweet of him!”  Anna gushes sincerely, laying a keycard on the counter.  “Sure, take them on back, room 503.  And then go home and get some sleep!  Twenty hours straight is the maximum union shift allowance.  And we can’t care for the patients if we can’t care for ourselves.”

“Yes mom,” Melissa sing-songs with a smile and rounds the corner with an invisible train of teenagers following after.

***********

Danny’s sob is a silent one.  Stiles has never met this woman before, but he’s seen her around town; short and a little plump with warm, kind eyes and a gentle smile, but Stiles feels like weeping on behalf of she and Danny both.  This woman doesn’t have much time.

Her hair, normally as dark as Danny’s, is thin and brittle and faded.   _All of her_ is thin and brittle, really.   _So_ thin.  And her eyes, while twitching out of synch with each other, manage to glare at them all out of sunken, cloudy pits that look vaguely slick.  She actually bares her teeth at Stiles.

“Please, Stiles,” Danny whispers a little brokenly while clinging to Kira’s hand.  Stiles just nods and steps forward, pulling his tiny bag of mountain ash from his pocket and a flick of the wrist later, the bed is surrounded perfectly.  Behind him, Melissa sounds, for a quick second, like she chokes on air.

Stiles squints a little and slows to a stop, not quite to the ash line and turns his head to look at the visitors chair.  Right there, at the edge of his vision, he sees it.

“ _Hoooollllyyy fuck_ ,” he whispers.  “It’s infected her,” he says a little louder.  “ _Physically_  infected; _magically_ infected.  That’s why she woke up.”

“Wwwwwakey, wakey!  Egggggs and bakey!” The woman hisses out, teeth still bared and when she lurches up at Stiles snake-quick, it’s only the restraints that keep her from flopping over the small guard rail and off the bed like a tossed off bag of bones and skin and insanity.  Despite the restraints, they all hear the crunchy snap of a bone breaking and Danny’s moaning sob goes almost unheard when the woman screeches, a gurgling high pitch that fades into a chuckle and she smiles toothily at Stiles, bloody spittle leaking down her chin.

“We seeeeeeeeee yoooooooou!” She sings happily and fast as a blink snaps her jaws together hard enough to have one of the top front teeth to break clean in two and fly halfway down the bed.  Danny sobs again.

“Mom, _please?_   _Stop_. Just stop. You’re hurting yourself!”  Danny rushes forward and is barred by a white-faced Stiles, who’s shaking his head.

“That’s not her right now, Danny.  I _swear_.  This is the thing we need to get out of her.”  Danny shakes his head again and again, but lets Stiles herd him back to the corner by the door where Kira’s still standing guard and looking horrified and ill.  Stiles suspects she can see the woman’s aura too.  Melissa’s watching Danny’s reaction with a look like she’s regretting having let them in at all.

“Danny?  Hey.”  Stiles waits til his eyes focus on Stiles’.  “We’re going to help her.  Okay?  Right now.”  Stiles fishes his amulets out from under his shirt to pluck out the unseen one and wraps its cord around the doorknob on a whim, willing the sight and sound of the room hidden from anyone walking by.  He shoves the rest of the knotted jumble into his pocket to deal with later.

“I don’t know if this’ll work well on a door, so I need you on watch.  Can you do that?”

“ _My mom_ —“

“Is getting the best help she can,” Stiles insists. “Dr. Stiles is all over this,” he says easily.  That startles a choked laugh out of Danny and Stiles squeezes his shoulder.  “Watch the door, ‘kay?”  Danny nods choppily.

“Okay.  Okay....” Stiles whispers to himself, thinking hard as he dumps his bag on the chair and yanks it open.  Right there on top, having somehow jostled free of the others, is a tiny bottle of peaceful calm, roosting on top of a small pile of mojo juices.  Like they were ready and waiting.  At this point, Stiles thinks, maybe they were.

“Whoa, Stiles, slow down.  Fill me in, buster,” Melissa demands when Stiles scoops up the bottles, uncorking the the peaceful calm.  Melissa shifts over to bar his way.  “I need to know what those are before you give them to her, because if you’re about to tell me it’s a magic potion—“

“It _is_ a magic potion,” he interrupts.  “A strong one that’ll keep that thing in her from harming her body until we can get it _out_.”  Melissa’s already shaking her head, like this is somehow a step too far for her brand of logic.  Stiles huffs, exasperated.  “You’ve just watched me and my friends become essentially invisible, seen Scott go scary furry, been threatened by a six foot tall lizard, seen this,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Danny’s mom “exact fucker in your nightmares _and_ here at work _and_ at the gas station and a magic potion is the point you’re balking on???” 

Melissa’s shoulders droop after a second and she backs away, hands raised in resignation.  “Just— just be careful.  I’m responsible for her health,” she says softly.  “So... _be careful_.”

“Weeeeee seeeeeeee youuuuuuuu,” the things sing-hisses when he approaches again.  “We seeeeee you mage.  We sssssee it all.  Wwwweeeee are sssssstronger.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks almost conversationally, stepping over the ash line to rest his hands on the bed’s railing.  “I see you too.”  He tries not to look into those crazily-canted eyeballs rolling freakishly in opposite directions, but finds himself sort of mesmerized by the way her entire face begins to warp, just a little, mouth widening and lips receding and _in the middle of the freaking day_.  “And maybe it’s escaped your notice?  But you’re not the _only one_ getting stronger.”  

That pronouncement has the creature’s face twisting with anger, eyes flooding with that pure slick oil that’s all too familiar and has Stiles’ stomach lurching but when she snaps her head up and over to bite at his hand resting on the railing, Stiles is already in motion, pinning her head back to the flat of the mattress and dumping the calming potion down her still-wide mouth then covers it with his hand, the other going to pinch her nose shut until she swallows, sputter-coughing a little when some goes down the wrong pipe.  

She thrashes in her bonds when Stiles releases her, but even that dies out after a minute until she’s doing little more than glaring with those freaky black eyes.

“Melissa, can you come look at her arm?  It’s starting to bruise pretty badly,” he says over his shoulder and she hurries to the bed, grimacing.

“Hell,” she mutters, reaching out, but stops when Stiles lifts his hand to stall her.

“Serious enough to need me to stop now?  Or can it wait a few more minutes?  Like, two more steps and I think this thing’ll be _out_ of her.”

Melissa heaves in a breath and nods, decisive.  “Just hurry.  The bone may have nicked a vein when it broke.”

Stiles hurries, carefully tipping restoratives into the woman’s slack mouth while she glares and weakly writhes.

“Doooooo they knnnnow?” The thing whispers with a grimacing, pained whine.“Do they know what we seee you do in the dark?Do they ssssseee _you_ at all?”Stiles ignores her as best he can, dumps another restorative in and sincerely hopes no one asks about any of this later.

“Kira, can you hand me that brown box there in the bag?  Under the side flap,” Stiles murmurs, watching the woman’s eyes clear up and then darken, clear and darken, terrified and hateful, loving and wretched but her eyes are back in synch, at least, so the mojo juice seems to be working.

“A Christmas ornament?” Kira queries, rushing over with the open box. 

“Easiest things in the world to break, in my experience.  Think magical hand grenade, minus the shrapnel.”

“So what’s inside then?”

Stiles smiles a little.  “You asked me what made me late today?  This,” he says, and as he drops it onto the floor, the woman’s eyes spear into Kira, lips moving silently before the ornament shatters, then she shrieks in agony, back bowing up and eyes clenching shut when the room is suddenly flooded with a pure, warm, white light.

Stiles maybe hadn’t totally thought this part through.  He’d have worn sunglasses, if he’d remembered to bring them in but it seems to do the trick regardless when an oily, worm-like thing the size of his thumb slithers from her mouth, darting toward the far edge of the bed only to fall with a little wet splat to the floor.  Melissa, half blinded by the light, shudders and backs away, disgusted.

But the floor is no less bright with the light lingering on the air in a way it actually _can’t_ , (according to the current laws of physics) and rams into the ash line ineffectually over and over; not unlike Scott had when confronted with a magical branch on a jeep.  

“Kira?” Stiles asks, glaring down at that sludgy blob.  “Would you care to do the honors?”

Kira sneers down at the slimy bit of evil too where it’s writhing in silent agony, flexes her electric-sparking fingers and lets her fox free to toast the tiny fucker to little more than charcoal while the lights flicker overhead and the walls rattle faintly.  Everything in Stiles that’s been coiled tight for the last few days suddenly unwinds with relief and leaves him feeling lightheaded and a little floaty.

“What,” Melissa asks hoarsely, still blinking rapidly to clear her vision, “was in that ornament?”

“Sunlight,” Stiles answers, blinking hard to clear the dancing spots out of his own sight, “collected at dawn; purest time of the day.”

Flying by the seat of one’s pants is oddly stressful, he thinks.  He needs to plan some preemptive plans again.  He remembers a better time when his backup plan’s backup plan had a backup plan of it’s own long before the shit ever hit the fan.

Kira snickers.  “That’s a lot of backup plans,” she comments and he blinks a little woozily at her for a second.

“I’m totally thinking out loud again,” he guesses.

“Yup,” Kira nods, but her smile is kind when she bumps her shoulder against his.  “Nicely done, soldier.”

”Right back atcha’,” he says, swaying a little.

“Is she—“ Danny’s hovering at Stiles’ elbow just outside the ash line but waits for Stiles’ nod before carefully picking his mom’s undamaged hand up and they _all_ startle when her eyes open blearily to frown a little at Danny.

“I oversleep again?  Sorry, sweetheart, I just need another minute,” she mumbles tiredly, then lets out a gentle snore.  

Kira joins Danny in laughing softly through a few happy tears.

One down, Stiles thinks, a little bleakly while he half-smiles at Melissa.  Possibly several thousand to go.

***********

Melissa sneaks them out pretty much the same way she’d gotten them in, faking an emergency call to Scott but sends Anna in to check on Mrs. Mahealani‘s arm.

No one else in the ward was any wiser to the noisy light show they’d had going on in there.  Ergo: Stiles’ amulet _kicks ass_.

“You know you’re still talking out loud, right?” Kira asks, fighting off a grin as they troop out the elevator toward the exit.

“Figures.  I think the light show may have somewhat disabled my brain to mouth filter.”  

Danny snorts, but then steadies him with a frown when Stiles stumbles his way out the hospital’s side entrance. 

“May have thrown my balance off a little too,” Stiles adds.

“You need a nap,” Kira informs him.  “Magic whiplash is no joking matter, if that’s what it is... especially when it’s something big like _sunlight in a freaking bottle_.”  She looks both impressed and annoyed.  “How the _hell_ did you do that?  I’ve never even _heard_ of a spell that can do that!”

“Then you, you fictional plebe, you... have not been correctly worshiping at the alter of Harry Dresden, professional wizard,” he snarks back, shuffling toward his jeep.  Danny plucks the keys from Stiles’ hand with a frown.  

“First, Harry had his in a hanky.  He just added it to a potion,” Danny says patiently, surprising a real and wide smile out of Stiles.  “Second?  No way you should be driving when you’re this tired,” Danny concludes, handing the keys to a wide-eyed Kira, who’s already fearfully shaking her head in a ‘nooooooooooo’ sort of way.

“Dude, I’m fine,” Stiles yawns out.  “Sleepy? Yes.  Exhausted?  No.  Not even close.  This entire summer has been an exorcise in functioning well when all the medical laws of the land would probably insist I shouldn’t even have a pulse.”  Danny frowns at him, looking uncertain.  “Also?  I’ve heard half the tale of why Kira herself doesn’t drive her ridiculously adorable Beetle.  No way I’m letting her behind the wheel of my baby.”  Kira’s nodding now, eyes still very wide.

“Me?  Driving?   A _stick_ , no less?  Noooo.  Bad-ness.  Just.  _No_ ,” she says, dead serious.  

Danny wilts a little.  “I’d rather stay and wait for my dad and my brother, but—“ he cuts off with a little pained noise, slapping over his shoulder.  Kira follows suit a half-second later, slapping at her neck and looking surprised.  But it’s not until they both begin to drop to the ground with hazy eyes that Stiles realizes.  By then, he’s got two plumed darts himself sticking out of his chest and arm and the world fades away into nothing.

***********

In the woods just across the road, the tranq rifle hits the ground with a soft thud when Allison’s fingers finally unclench and open.  It takes her two tries to hit the com button on her earpiece.  “Move in,” she says with authority.  “Tranq the mage again if he so much as snores.  Empty his pockets, too.  Any jewelry or personal effects, gone.  Bring the fox girl and rendezvous at the dark site in ten.”

“Affirmative,” comes a muffled response, but Allison hardly hears, feet already shuffling noisily back toward her hidden SUV on autopilot, the tranq gun forgotten behind her.

 _Finally._ She’ll fix this.  She’ll _make_ him fix this.  Fix the pack.  Fix her.  Fix the town.  She’s done waiting for him to do the right thing and undo whatever he’d done to _cause_  all this.  The pack will understand.  So will Deaton, once this is done.  They’ll see.  They’ll _all_  see.  She was right all along.

***********

 


	10. Temporarily Certifiable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To all the Allison-haters? Um... sorry? D:
> 
> Fun fact: Go without sleep for long enough and symptoms of sleep deprivation psychosis are pretty much inevitable.
> 
> Introducing: Exhaustion-induced, semi-psychotic, violent Allison
> 
> I actually kinda like Allison, so I skimmed off most of what she does to Stiles, but there is still some, so... you’ve been warned?
> 
> Also, bigotry. And, um... the bigot is crazy, armed, homophobic, and terrifying? 
> 
> Clearly, Danny is not having a good day.

*********

Danny, being purely human (so far as he knows), is the last to wake up. 

Wincing through the _nastiest_ headache ever (unless he counts the morning after that one night with the Jaeger), he discovers himself gagged and bound hand and foot to a chair.   _Then_ he sees (holy shit,  _what the fuck?!_ ) the bloody mess that _Stiles_ currently is, (not to mention the sickening amount of blood on _Allison’s_  bare fists) and he half-wishes he’d stayed unconscious.  

Stiles is a complete _wreck_ with one eye swollen half shut and lip busted and more than half his face turning horrifying shades of blue and grey and green under the blood still dripping from a cut above his swollen eye.  His hands are bound tight behind him and ankles fixed to the legs of his chair and there are tiny droplets of blood spattered over the dusty floor surrounding him and everything about this is just _insane._

Kira sits bound opposite Danny in another chair so they can apparently share the same foot bath of murky-looking water in a large five gallon bucket that’s duct taped to the floor.  She too is biting down on a thick cloth gag and weeping a little, but Danny suspects that’s possibly more from frustrated anger than pain or fear and is growling steadily at Allison, even from across the room.  

This?  This is _beyond_  fucked up.  Does this shit seriously even happen outside of movies?  Is this even _real_?  His nightmares are well and truly hell these days, but this?  This is a whole new level of just— wrong.  And between the two very armed men in ski masks along the far wall, the armed men Danny can see just outside the door in matching masks and Allison’s overall appearance, it doesn’t look like the situation is going to improve anytime soon.

Allison herself looks a lot like Danny’s mom did just before Stiles dropped the sunlight bomb (and would that do any good right now if there was a spare?). Danny doesn’t think so.  Allison looks beyond help of _any_ kind, eyes bloodshot and bruised-looking and twitching and she’s huffing with frustration through dry, cracked lips and the rest of her looks almost skeletal thin and ten kinds of crazy. 

She looks like death.  

Danny’s not sure he’s even _seen_  Allison in the last few days.  When did this even _happen_?

Danny must make a sound of some kind (probably a thin whine of genuine fear) that has one of the faceless goons nearest to the door behind Kira sauntering over to glare at him through his mask.  Then, like it’s the most normal and casual thing in the world, pulls out a gun and presses it hard to Danny’s forehead and equally as casual, _flicks off the safety_  with his thumb.  Danny’s heart skips a half beat before it thunders into motion while the rest of him just... freezes.

“You so much as twitch,” the goon says soft and _very_  sincere-sounding, “and your little fag hag girlfriend here will be wearing your brains for lipstick.  Got it?”  Danny’s breath catches when his heart lurches a little further into his throat and he honestly doesn’t know if he’s supposed to answer through his gag or nod (would _that_ be twitching?) or—

“Baker!” Allison barks out.  “Eyes on mine, dimwit.”  

The masked psycho switches his furious gaze from Danny to her, then lowers his gun slowly when he sees her gun trained unsteadily on _him._  

“He’s _human_ ,” she seethes.  “Just human.  I told you to bring the fox and the mage.  We don’t _hunt_ humans.  We don’t _hurt_ humans.  It’s not who we are.  Now get _the fuck_ back to your post.”  

‘Baker’ nods sharply but a little disdainfully, throwing one last creepy-as-fuck glare at Danny before he holsters his gun and stalks back to the door, muttering something about Kate.  Like Kate Argent, ie: Allison’s crazy aunt? Danny wonders. The Kate who burned almost the whole Hale family alive a few years back?

Not the kind of person Danny would think would have a groupie.

But it’s Beacon Hills, he reminds himself.  Weird is the norm.  Or maybe terror is the norm.

Danny finally takes a deep and shak breath, holds it for as long as he can, just to keep the panic at bay and his lunch in his stomach.  Kira’s foot nudges his in the murky water and she gives him calm eyes, _somehow_ , while exaggerating her own slow, deep breaths in and out and in and out, even and steady until he catches on, mimicking her until he feels less like throwing up from sheer terror and adrenaline and more like figuring out how the hell this happened.

“No more stalling, Stiles,” Allison snaps while she shakily re-holsters her gun with trembling hands.  “Just tell me how you did it.  Tell me how to _undo_ it,” Allison grinds out, turning back to Stiles.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Allison,” Stiles gurgles, coughing with a wince.  A glob of thick-ish blood trickles out the edge of his mouth.  “But you already know that.  Just because I can sense it, doesn’t mean I’m responsible for it,” he concludes, gasping cautiously through the pain.  He’s hunched forward a little in a way that looks like maybe his ribs are hurt?  Danny cracked a rib freshman year and recognizes that particular pain.

Allison’s reply is a teeth-gnashing scream of frustration that ends when she twists a little and kicks her foot out sharply, landing it just below Stiles’ kneecap and has Stiles choking on air when the pain explodes up his leg.  But he doesn’t scream; he grits his teeth together and lets a few tears loose, but doesn’t scream.  

Stiles, Danny thinks a little manically, clearly has nerves of solid steel.  Danny’s knee already hurts in sympathy.

When Stiles’ response evidentially doesn’t meet Allison’s standards, she storms away to a streaky blacked-out window on the other side of the room, muttering to herself, head twitching and hands jerking about, like she’s actually having an argument... with someone _not there_.  

Danny goes cold at the thought.  They need to get out of here, like, _yesterday_.  Kira’s wide, knowing eyes say she’s in total agreement.  Except, they’re all still stuck in these chairs and having seen Kira’s electro-flaming fox at work on that full-on X-Files oily worm that slithered out of his own mom, he knows exactly why they’re sharing a water source.  If she uses it? Danny likely fries.  Her calm stability is keeping him alive in here, really.  

But ‘here’ is a warehouse of some kind, Danny thinks.  He looks around slowly, trying hard not to draw any attention and it seems they’re in an upper floor office that overlooks a large empty metal cavern.  Condemned industrial, maybe?  Whatever, their immediate space is only twenty by thirty, tops, with dirty skylights and cracked, broken mini blinds dangling over walls that seem to be mostly made of thick plexiglass.  The only lights Danny sees are a the dim one set just outside the door with the bulk of the guys in ski masks and the small industrial lantern set on a desk near to where Stiles is still sucking in careful breaths, eyes closed and head bowed, resting.

Resting, but not motionless.  

Stiles’ wrists are moving, slow and careful, twisting forward, then backward, then outward before he stills, relaxes, and starts again.  Danny blinks in surprise, eyes darting to Kira.  She raises a knowing eyebrow and winks.

Seriously.  

She...  _winks._

Danny would laugh if he wasn’t so scared, but feels a little lighter, maybe— a little braver, and starts to sit up before her eyes widen and she shakes her head just a little, carefully and visibly _shrinking_ with her shoulders curving in and head bowing further down, like she’s cringing.  Then she peeks up at him from under her long hair and winks again.

Holy shit, he woke up in a spy movie.  

With kitsunes and werewolves and mages.  Oh my?  

But Danny’s been in a total of three school plays and isn’t half bad at acting.  He slowly and deliberately wilts in that odd way only tall guys can really do, letting himself feel the exhaustion and fear.  Or, feel it on the outside, at least.  

But he starts to twist _his_ wrists too, just a little.  On the second flex outward, he feels it give (a spy movie with incompetent villains who fail at rope tying?) enough he thinks maybe he could slip his left wrist free.  He rolls his eyes up to meet Kira’s and gives her excited eyes and a fractional head nod to his left side.  Her eyes widen too and she manages to grin around her gag, sagging a little with relief.

Danny’s not sure why, though.  Relief seems a bit premature.  Danny with loosened ropes does absolutely nothing about hers, or Stiles’, or loony Allison still muttering and rocking in place, sheathing and unsheathing small deadly-looking daggers from the belt of her too-loose pants. It definitely doesn’t help with the freaky-ass faceless bigot (or his numerous comrades) who’s _still_  glaring at him from just outside the door, or for the two silent guards still positioned in the corners inside the office already.

Danny doesn’t have to fake being afraid to keep his ‘nearly-free’ cover, especially afraid of bigot guy.  He’s dealt with haters before, but this guy practically reeks of ‘wrong/freaky/evil’.  To say nothing of ‘evil shadow nightmare’ thing Stiles had tried to explain on the way to the hospital only a few short hours ago.

But more than a few hours, he sees with surprise, peeking up at the skylight.  Danny had apparently been out for a while because the sun’s just done setting and there’s stars blinking there and gone through the dingy skylights.  

Except....... stars aren’t red. 

Or shimmering gold. 

Or electric blue, for that matter.  Not in this solar system anyway.

He can’t hide his wide eyes now, because there’s an unnatural creaking noise that has the two inner guards and bigot-douche stepping forward, looking alarmed and reaching for weapons, just before a loud, splintering crack has the skylight overhead shattering in a rain of glass and no less than four bodies dropping down with odd, growling roars. 

The resulting fight scene is like an _explosion_ of sound: gunshots, growls, shouts, curses, the sounds of splintering wood and groaning metal.  So this, at least, seems like movie-worthy action.  Which, now that Danny thinks on it, isn’t a good thing.

Kira does something weird and shifty with a little growling grunt that knocks she and Danny both hard onto their sides, but still in their chairs, the bucket of water tipping along with them, water sloshing out and soaking them both.  

But Danny’s hands are now _free_ instead of just loose and he’s trying hard to ignore the chunks exploding out of the plexi-window only a ( _holyshitholyshitholyshit_ ) _foot_ over his head while he tugs the ropes free of his legs and then, like it’s scripted, Danny rolls hard and fast toward Kira just in time to avoid the bullet taking a chunk out of the window frame where his head had _just been_ and yanks he and Kira both behind the closest decrepit wooden desk while she tugs the last of her own ropes off.

The second she’s free, she cranks up the juice, yanking her fashion-friendly belt loose and that freaky-ass/cool-as-hell fox-like aura bursts forth, snarling with fury and with a snick of her thumb and shift of wrist, her entire belt snaps together into a sword. (If Danny hadn’t been impressed before, he definitely is _now_.)  The firey fox grins at him and, with a barbaric yell, gracefully leaps over the desk and straight into the fray, taking out two goons (one being the bigot) in as many seconds with a fierce knee to the temple on the first and a sword-butt to the back of the neck to the other before practically _teleporting_ between Stiles (who hasn’t budged and is maybe unconscious) and Allison, who’s looking panicked and _so_ confused, like she’s not really sure how any of this turned out so _wrong_.

Kira stands her ground, even when Allison raises her gun.  But maybe Danny’s learned to teleport too, because he’s suddenly right there next to her, unarmed but feeling brave and calm and real and then (really?) so is a tiny little were-teen with green and pink-streaked hair pulled back over her fuzzy, pointed ears.  She’s joined by a tall boy with golden eyes and a serene face who’s joined by an older Asian woman, small but kinda scary with her eyes a solid red of authority who’s mostly just frowning at Allison with disappointment before being joined by Kira’s dad and possibly her mother?  And then a middle-aged guy, eyes shining a placid neon blue with an honest-to-god _mullet_ over his oddly furred face and then a slender black woman, eyes also shining gold and soon there’s a solid _dozen_ wolves and kitsunes (and one human history teacher) forming a fleshy wall between Allison and her target.

Allison’s sane enough (thankfully) to drop the gun with a choked-off, defeated sound, then collapses to the floor, clutching at her hair tightly while she sobs.

Danny drops back to kneel down at Stiles’ side and sees him wince.  

“Damn the timing,” Stiles grits out.  “I was almost free,” he says and then he _is_ free, wincing through the strain of bringing his arms back in front of him with a near-silent groan while Danny unties his legs for him.  “Let me talk to her,” Stiles says a little breathlessly, shakily trying to stand.

“You,” Danny informs him, “are a little crazy, aren’t you?  Like, _genuinely_ ,” Danny accuses him.  “She would’ve _killed_ you.”

“Your mom would’ve too, if she’d had the strength,” Stiles reminds him quietly, wiping his bloody brow with the sleeve of his (likely doomed) hoodie and massaging his own shoulder.  “Help me up.   _Please._  Let me talk to her.”

Stiles has to talk his way through the wall of (Danny _knew_ what he’d seen his ninth Halloween wasn’t a costume) werewolves, each of them running a quick hand down Stiles’ arm or shoulder that draws something odd and grey-ish out of his skin and up into their own hands as he passes.  But, Danny notes, Stiles’ steps are a little less stilted every time they do.  The red-eyed Asian woman and Kira refuse to go further than a foot away from him, just in case Allison’s got a close-up, assassination-style backup plan, maybe.  At this point, it wouldn’t surprise Danny much. 

Danny gives them all a little distance, shuffling through the utility bag he’d found half-kicked under a now-broken desk and finds Stiles’ bundle of amulets and the tiny purple crystal he’s seen Stiles dancing like a coin over his knuckles.  Their wallets, car keys, and cellphones, (batteries removed), are there too.  Danny sets to reassembling their phones while he eavesdrops a little.

“Alli, hey,” Stiles says a little breathlessly, propping himself up on the only remaining whole desk left in the room, his leg and aching knee held stiffly out before him.  “We are _all_ scared, Allison.”  _That_ seems to get her attention and she glares up at him through the unkempt frizz of her hair.

“Scared of your own monster?” She sneers through chattering teeth.  “You should be.”

“Right now, I’m more afraid of the monster you’ve become,” he says quietly.  She flinches back like she’s been slapped.  “And you _know_ , deep-down, that I’m not responsible for that thing out there; you’d have killed me by now if you really believed that.  Just like you know Jackson wasn’t responsible for Matt and Derek wasn’t responsible for your mom.”  Allison cringes, stricken, before her face crumbles on a dry sob.  “But we need you, Allison.  Whole and well.  I don’t know if we can beat this thing without you.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ she gasp-sobs out, chest heaving and rocking back and forth.  Danny finds a smidge of pity for her, somehow.

“You can, because you’re badass and you will,” Stiles counters, gripping the edge of the desk tighter, “because your dad and Scott and Isaac _need_ you.”  Stiles’ voice goes a little odd and pained when he says those names, and Danny reminds himself to ask about it again later. (Well, ask Kira anyhow.) “You know that much, right?”  She nods, gripping her own hair in a fist and wiping her nose with her too-thin wrist, trembling with exhaustion.  

“Then lets call your dad, okay? Right now. We’ll have him meet us at Deaton’s.”  Stiles manages to stand tall and nods his head in thanks to their rescuers as he limps his way toward the door, past the remaining unconscious and/or hogtied rogue hunters, his jaw set.

Danny just stares after him for a second, then hurries to help him out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.

*********

Melissa, according to Satomi, had (worriedly) called Deaton when she’d found Stiles’ abandoned duffel next to his own abandoned jeep, who then called the Ito pack for assistance in tracking Stiles, Kira, and possibly Danny down.  Melissa had shrugged off the coincidental timing.  ‘Union rules,’ she’d explained, because a co-worker had reminded her she’d reached her single-shift maximum and was headed home when she saw Stiles’ jeep still there.  Stiles is just happy the universe threw them a well-timed lifeline.

*********

Deaton’s eyebrows are too angry for their usual conversation, so Stiles just carries on with it one-sided (ie: rambles on to help distract Deaton a little) while Deaton fumes, his eyes closed like he’s trying to meditate away his anger.  Emphasis on _try._   Even before Stiles started his brain-numbing, mind-distracting word vomit, Deaton hadn’t been making much headway if the small tremors in the walls said anything.

Stiles has taken over half of Deaton’s office and desk to make a healing salve for himself and then a few new bottles of healing sleep for Allison, while the salve is steeping over a gentle green flame.  He runs his amulets through the flame too to give them a quick boost.  He really needs to work these into some casual jewelry soon, or maybe something stealthier, even.  Allison couldn’t have done even half the damage she had if he’d had his crystal on him, at the very least.

“Seriously, I know it’s just a magically chemical effect that makes it green, but the world would be a prettier place to live, I think, if all flame was green.  Or purple.  Except... that’d make the sun green or purple too, and I’m just not sure ‘fading bruise’ would be a good color on ninety percent of the planetary bipedal population.”  

Stiles pours the healing sleep into three small disposable liquid pet medicine bottles and goes back to the mint-scented salve.  It feels done, mentally/magically.  Mentigically?  Whatever, it’s done and done well, Deaton’s mirror tells him five minutes later.  At least Stiles’ face is well on his way through the healing process and his eye is no longer swollen at all.  Stiles frowns down at his throbbing knee. 

“Will the salve work for my knee, do you think?  Or my ribs?”

Deaton sighs quietly from behind him.  

“It should, yes,” he says patiently.  Except not. 

Stiles turns to frown at him as he plops himself down on Deaton’s sofa to hike up the leg of his slacks to get at the ugly, swollen mass of ‘ow’.

“What’s up, Doc?” He asks, and Deaton gives him a flat look.

“Besides the obvious?” Deaton snarks unexpectedly, waving a hand at Stiles and the door and presumably, the werewolf/kitsune/hunter/innocent-bystander brigade all hovering outside in the surgery.  “She could’ve killed you, Stiles.”

“But she didn’t,” Stiles counters, not for the first time.  “And she didn’t for a reason.”

“Yes, so she _said_ ,” Deaton stresses the last word, looking grumpy and uneasy.  “But—“

“But she _didn’t_ ” Stiles stresses his last word too.  “Even with her insane hunter logic running the show, the true Allison wouldn’t allow it.   _Couldn’t_ allow it.  She even half-assed tying Danny up, because at the heart of her, she’s as innocent as the rest of us.  Deadlier than most, yeah.  Obviously.  But still _Allison_ , under it all.  She’s sick, Doc, not evil.”  

Stiles hadn’t seen this coming — this oddly protective side of Deaton that’s only shown itself before for Scott alone.  And Cora, Stiles supposes.  And sometimes Derek.  

“If helping those in need is what we do, she makes the list,” Stiles says quietly.

Deaton deflates a little, but nods after a moment.  “It _is_ what we do.”

There’s a gentle tap at the door before it opens and Danny’s head pops through wearing a worried frown.  “We’ve got company.  A lot of it,” he says pointedly, eyes shifting to Stiles, but his lips twitch, just a little.  “Including Mrs. McCall.”  Stiles and Deaton share a look that maybe even _they_ can’t decipher before hauling themselves to their feet.

Danny sums it up nicely, though, as they march/limp for the door.  “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”

*********

“Oh, _honey_ ,” Melissa says when she spots Stiles, going all instant ‘mom with a wounded puppy’ mode and he endures her fussing for a solid fifteen seconds before he playfully glares her into retreating.  Lori snickers at them both from her perch on a counter, legs swinging off the edge.  Beside her, Danny covers a chuckle with a badly-faked cough and both Brett and Kira just smirk outright.  

Most of the rest of the Ito pack rescue squad had stayed behind to secure the hunters until Argent could deal with them personally, or been sent home.  Kira refused to leave until Stiles did and Brett and Lori refused to leave without Kira and Satomi.  Kira’s parents, of course, didn’t want to let her out of their sights until they were damn sure the evening’s unexpected action was truly over.  Satomi stayed to pow-wow with Deaton, apparently, but they haven’t really had the time yet.  Danny sort of hovers near Kira companionably, like he’s not sure where else he’s meant to be.

Danny had impressed Stiles tonight, simply by not totally losing his shit.  He’d impressed Kira too, Stiles thinks, just by virtue of not getting his head blown off.

“It honestly, really, truly looks worse than it is,” he assures Melissa.  At least she didn’t see him half an hour ago.  She’d no-doubt have a whole new set of words, most of them not of the pg-13 and under variety.  “I’ll be back to my usual ugly duckling self by tomorrow night, tops.  Really,” he tells her.  He probably will, too; he can _feel_  the salve working.

She’s still grumbling under her breath about irresponsible teenagers and reckless hunters when Chris Argent himself eases through the door, pointedly closing it behind him, (despite the outraged protests from the waiting room on the other side,) then freezes when he’s suddenly greeted by five sets of glowing eyes, one being the deep red of an unknown alpha who are all sporting expressions varying from shorts-wetting fear (Lori) to outright distrust (Kira’s mother, Noshiko).  Stiles defuses most the problem simply by hobbling over and placing himself between them and greets Chris as genially as he can without wincing over the deep ache of his ribs.

“Hey Chris, long time, no see.”  Chris blinks at him, surprised.  “You, unlike Allison, look marginally well rested,” Stiles says in greeting, keeping his stance relaxed and trusting and hopes its eases the wolves/kitsune/protective humans back a little.  “She’s really not doing so well just now,” he says a little quieter with a little head nod toward the back.  

Understatement, actually.  Allison is practically curled up into a ball in the far corner, wedged in and staring miserably at her knees, sniffling softly and twitching with exhausted misery.  But Chris opts to frown first at the bruised and bloody problem before him.

“What the hell happened to you?” He demands with genuine concern, eyes zeroing in on the wolves/kitsunes behind Stiles with suspicion, though he actually flinches away from whatever look Satomi gives him.  Smart man.

“I did,” Allison says quietly and Chris freezes again, face stricken before he blanks it and approaches her cautiously.  If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think Chris is a little afraid of her.  “I didn’t— I couldn’t take it.  I can’t— it just _hurts_.  I close my eyes and every time I see _her_ and I see _him_ and that _thing_  and I can’t—  _Every_  time! _All_ the time,” she gasps, fingernails digging hard into her own shins and rocking a little harder, stressed and scared.  

Chris is clearly still a dad first, hunter second because he ignores the crowd of shifters at his back to scoop Allison’s slight frame into his arms like a small child and just hugs her tight, whispering reassurances into her hair while she clings to him like he’s the last real thing she has in the world.  Even Deaton visibly softens, seeing her so broken.  “They can’t get to you, sweetheart.  They’re dead and gone and neither one can get to you again.   _Never_  again.”

Stiles flinches with realization.  Kate and Gerard.   _Jesus._   Allison’s just as haunted as Stiles is, in her own way. 

“Shit,” he says softly and has more than a few heads turning curiously.  “Gone but not forgotten,” he mutters with sympathy, and limps slowly across the room to join them.  Chris turns to him warily.

“Why call me?” Chris’ eyes shift over to Deaton, then back to Stiles.  “Rumor had it there was a one strike and you’re out policy.”  

Stiles shrugs. That particular edict was all Deaton and Stiles isn’t sure he’s wrong on it, considering how paranoid everyone seems these days.

“Maybe there should be, but... this doesn’t qualify,” Stiles sighs.  “She’s not the first person that evil shadow whatzit has used to get at me, I think.  So, it was either call you, or leave her handcuffed to the front gate of Eichen House.  Personally, I think we can help her more than they can.”  

Chris and Allison both frown up at him.  “It’s come for you... through _people_?” Chris has that face on now.  One part horror and three parts incredulous.  Ever the doubting doubter.

“My father,” Stiles supplies quietly, with a twitch of a shrug, though his core goes a little colder and he looks away for a long second before pulling the three mini medicine bottles out of his blood-stained hoodie and hands them to Allison.  “It’s for healing sleep, and I’ve tried it.  Doesn’t stop the nightmares, but it takes the worst of the pointy edges off?  Like, it takes an EF-5 twister and dials it down to a EF-3.”  Allison nods, clutching them like they’re precious.  For her, he supposes they would be.  “If you need more,” he addresses Chris, “just text, and I’ll get some to you, soon as I can.”

Allison’s eyes still have a leftover smidge of ‘can’t trust a word you say’, but she reaches out for his hand, maybe to squeeze his in a thank you (since his anti-Hale amulet’s active again) gesture, but he lurches back, ice flooding in yet again and she flinches in return, her expression all regret as she lets her hand drop away.

He shakes his head, face blank, and turns to go when Allison blurts out from behind him:  “I wish I could tell him, Dad.  I wish I could tell him that I’m not the only one who knows how _big_ a mistake we made.  How _wrong_ we were.”

Stiles falters briefly, then scoops his duffel off the floor but then pauses again with his hand on the doorknob to the back alley entrance. 

“Easy to say, I’m sure, now that the pack’s former leech on a leash is marginally useful again,” he says quietly, and sees the doorknob frost over in his hand before yanking it away and hoping no one noticed.  He turns to Melissa.  

“Can I get a lift?” He asks quietly, and she nods, her own expression strained and sympathetic.  They step into the alley, door closing gently behind him before he curls his arm around Melissa’s shoulders, goes unseen and they both slip away.

*********

The waiting room of the clinic has gone dead silent, and Lydia’s confusion at everyone’s sudden, pained stillness clears up when Jackson repeats in a guilty-sounding whisper the same thing they’d all just heard.

“Leech on a —“ Cora’s wide-eyed and staring at Derek, waiting for an explanation but he just stares at the door of the surgery, pale with shock, like he can make the door vanish by will alone and maybe make Stiles’ words vanish along with it.

“He believes that,” Isaac breathes out, looking gutted and unexpectedly turns on Derek.  “What the fuck did you say when you kicked him out?”  Derek’s still staring at the door, but shakes his head slowly.

“Nothing like that. _Nothing_ ,” he reiterates when he sees nearly all of them staring at him in various shades of shock and anger.

“Almost four months, Derek,” Boyd says, a little accusingly.  “He’s been thinking _that_ every damn day for four _months_? That he was somehow just, what?  Clinging on when no one wanted him?”

“No wonder he won’t talk to us,” Erica seethes, pacing in agitation back and forth between a coldly furious Peter and shamed-looking Jackson.  “Or let us talk to him.   _Jesus_.”

Scott’s actually cringing silently, lips pressed thin and staring out the window, hugging himself and says nothing when he sees his mother’s car vanish on the spot and knows she and Stiles have left.  How Stiles managed to disappear a whole car, he doesn’t know.  The icy feeling of betrayal and abandonment and heartbreak Stiles had left him just a few weeks ago makes perfect sense now.  Stiles believes _Scott_ had done that to Stiles.  That they’d _all_  done that to Stiles.  Scott doesn’t have to wonder if it’s true.  But... Stiles was supposed to be safer, right?

The surgery door opens and Deaton emerges with Chris and a guilty-looking and sickly-exhausted Allison, Mr. Yukimura and another woman that strongly resembles the new girl, Kira.  An older alpha and her betas trail behind, with Danny (how had _that_ happened? Jackson wonders, feeling more than a little ashamed) bringing up the rear and Kira beside him.

“Alpha Hale,” Satomi greets, her expression stern.

“Alpha Ito,” Derek returns, bowing his head slightly with respect, then turns to Allison and Chris, hiking up a concerned brow of inquiry.

“I think it’s best if we spend the rest of the weekend outside the county,” Chris says, giving Allison a reassuring shoulder squeeze.  “I’ll send someone to round up the last of the crew — get them all out of town too, for a while.”

“I believe she’d be alright now, for three or four days, at least,” Deaton offers.  “But extra rest without ‘it’s’ influence can only help.”  Deaton pulls a small bag of little restorative-filled bottles from beneath the front counter and Chris takes them, nodding his thanks.

Isaac approaches carefully and pulls Allison close, but still asks Deaton.  “Why—“

It’s Kira who answers, her voice ice cold.  “Stiles ‘leeched’ off the worst of her symptoms, just by being in the same room for a few hours.”  Kira fury seems to be directed more at Derek than Allison.  Her faintly orange-tinged eyes are loaded with accusation that Derek can’t bring himself to acknowledge or defend, beyond his only truth.  

“We were trying to keep him safe,” he says simply.

The Ito pack, with Danny trailing behind (and throwing an angry look at Jackson), file out of the clinic and back to their cars, largely ignoring the Hale pack altogether.  Except for Lori, who pauses to glare up at Derek, (mostly) unafraid.  “You failed.”

Derek nods.  “I know.”

*********


	11. Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Downside: The hits just won’t stop coming.
> 
> Upside: Jordan Parrish. (He honest-to-god looks like a kicked puppy and it’s fucking adorable.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no lie — I kinda made myself queasy writing the first bit of this chapter. This evil shadow thingy is really just this twisted/wrong, though. I couldn’t bring myself to take it out. 
> 
> Warning, maybe? : Disturbing imagery followed by some well-deserved vomiting.
> 
>  
> 
> Hadn’t planned to post this, but my lawnmower died. And my dishwasher. Took the day off to edit for a bit of stress therapy. :)

 

********

Amy, the morning manager at the diner cringes when she gets a good look at Stiles just after dawn Saturday morning.“I know you’re not supposed to talk about fight club, but—“ she starts, locking the front door behind him until Ed, the cook, finally shows.

Stiles snorts with a grin, shaking his head.  “Was with my friend running errands; we got side-swiped,” he tells her, which... is almost true.  If saving Danny’s mom was an errand, that is.  And he was side-swiped by tranquilizer darts, sort of.  Amy just shakes her head at him and shoo’s him into the kitchen to help with kitchen prep, wincing when a booming clunk echoes through the back door.

“Avoid the alley today for a while,” she adds.  “There’s some nut out there trying to kill the dumpster, or something, and the police are taking their sweet time getting here,” she says with an exasperated frown and a hand wave to the peephole in the back door.

Stiles quirks a curious eyebrow when another heavy boom echoes through and peeks out, then stills with shock.

Because it’s _him_ , Stiles thinks.  Hard to tell without the dark of night wrapping shadows around everything, but it’s _him_.  Stiles is sure of it.

Drunk blowjob guy — the dick who kept throwing cash at him, and he’s not just a few screws loose right now, but has maybe a single screw left.  Or maybe even that’s being too generous; he’s pant-less, no underwear, filthy and bloody, and seems to be trying to hump the dumpster, one hand mangled with actual _bone shards_ poking out of the skin and _still_ punching into the hard metal side of the dumpster while the other hand is fisted around a bloody wad of cash and a small bottle of what Stiles suspects is booze.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Stiles breathes out, then lurches back from the peephole entirely when the guy abruptly snaps his head around, like he’d actually _heard_ him from twenty feet away and _through_ the heavy metal of the door, to glare at the peephole Stiles was peering through.  

Except he _can’t_ glare.  Because the dude’s eyes are _gone_ , nothing left but deep, uneven gouges and one flap of an eyelid dangling and bloody, dark empty sockets weeping fluids which is awful all on it’s own, but... _fuck._  The guy’s _lips_ are gone too, Stiles thinks, like he’d carved them away from nose to chin and back through his cheeks and nothing’s left but bloody, too-big red teeth and raw-looking gums that leaves him looking like—

Amy looks seriously alarmed at Stiles’ reaction and peers through the hole too, then stumbles to the side to vomit noisily into the sink.  Stiles already has the kitchen phone in hand, 911 answering and is stuttering out an explanation while Amy runs the water, shakily wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“ _Sir?”_ The tiny voice asks urgently.  “Are you still there?  Hello!?”

“Just... send an ambulance,” Stiles urges breathlessly, fighting off the urge to follow Amy’s example.  “Fast.”

********

Amy shuts the diner for the day when she can’t reach the owner and Dan at the bar takes one look at him when Stiles shuffles in two hours early for his afternoon shift and sighs.“I forgot to call,” Dan says apologetically. 

And just like that, Stiles has the rest of the day off.

********

Stiles is not happy about time off — not after the guy in the alley had slurred out ‘I seeeee youuuuu’ as best he could without lips, his face still turned toward the door Stiles was admittedly hiding behind until the paramedics wheeled him away. 

Stiles needs a distraction in the worst way and doesn’t think attempting new magics is the best idea when his head is this full and hands this unsteady.Mild shock, he thinks.

Maybe not so mild at all.

It’s been more than an hour since he’d left an apologetic Dan behind and Stiles finds himself sitting on the stoop of Satomi’s shop, waiting for someone to come open it and give him a place to hide.He’s content, for the moment, to sit under the too-bright sun and just breathe and feel the world spin beneath his feet. 

It’s Satomi herself that finally ushers him in with warm, concerned eyes, makes him a cup of calming tea and doesn’t demand a single answer for his sudden appearance or unnerved silence.This morning, Stiles knows, will be one of the things that will haunt him for life.He knows it’s stupid to even consider that he’d had a hand in making the man ill, but...

But what if he _had_?It seems that everywhere he goes, tragedy follows.

Stiles isn’t surprised when Deaton shows up next, but is surprised at the car stuffed to the brim with boxes of books— some of them a little singed at the edges (and _feel_ like Hale pack?), but most simply old and worn and likely worth a small fortune.

They’re reference books, mostly, on everything that has ever gone bump in the night, or that someone suspects goes bump in the night, or maybe, at some point a thousand years ago, a sick child woke screaming and in their fevered minds ‘ _knew_ ’ went bump in the night.All myth started somewhere, after all.

Stiles is a little floored, really.Even with all the insanity revolving around their little scrap of earth, it seems now they’ve been lucky that _more_ of the supernatural hasn’t invaded to wreak havoc if even only a small percentage of what’s here in these books is actually real.

“How many of these kinds of creatures actually exist?” He asks Deaton seriously.“I’ve never even _heard_ of half of them.”He’s been speed-reading his way through a matched set of books that read more like journals of a self-proclaimed wizard that Stiles suspects was just a trumped-up emissary. (Or something.) 

“No one knows for certain,” Deaton admits, tucking a small scrap of paper into the book he’s studying before moving on to the next.“I personally have only ever dealt with shapeshifters, kitsunes, succubi, wendigos, a kanima, forest sprites, vampires, mountain gnomes, djinn... and various types of fae.  And various casters, such as we.”

“Banshees are a sort of fae, aren’t they?” Stiles asks, somewhat cautiously, and uncertain as to why he asks.Deaton nods, flipping another page.For a while, they’re both silent.

“Chris Argent called this morning,” Deaton announces out of the blue.“To say that Allison slept for nearly five hours straight, last night.”

How weird is it that even after everything, Stiles’ heart feels a little lighter having heard that? “She needed it,” Stiles says quietly.Deaton nods again.

It’s another five minutes of Deaton’s somewhat uncharacteristic fidgeting before he speaks again.“They could all use something of a boost, just lately.”

Stiles freezes with a page half-turned, hoping Deaton’s _not_ vaguely suggesting what Stiles thinks he is.Deaton’s face gives away nothing, like he hadn’t just sort of (not) asked for the _worst_ possible favor.

“You want me to visit.”It’s not a question.

Deaton has the grace to look abashed, at least, when he sighs a little unhappily.

“I’ve given them the job of damage control.It will keep them out of your way, I believe, and having a goal will help to steady them, somewhat, so that they might steady others.”

Stiles nods.He gets it.He also hates it.

“I suppose I could pencil in some unseen stalking time.It’s not like they need to know I’m there, right?”

“Proximity is the only necessity, I would think,” Deaton agrees, looking slightly relieved.

Stiles, despite being (maybe a smidge) badass, is still somewhat of a pushover.

 

********

 

“ _Really??_ ” Kira demands, cautiously weaving her way through the maze of books strewn all over the tea shop floor, vaguely organized by subject.“There’s a _mountain_  of books I’ve never read and you didn’t even _call??_ ”  She actually pouts, hands on her hips, (and maybe preparing a grumpy foot stomp) giving Stiles the beady eye.“What kind of friend would deprive me of _all this???_ ”

“Uhhh,” Stiles says, feeling dumb.With everything that happened this morning, it never even crossed his mind to call.What kind of friend indeed?“I was traumatized this morning,” he defends.“ _Really_.”

Her expression softens a little.

“That the same excuse you’re giving me?” Danny asks lightly, popping up just past Kira’s shoulder with a little smile.

“Well,” Stiles gripes, somewhat shortly, “if in the future either of you comes across a guy who’d clawed his own eyes out and carved his own lips off sing-songing that you he sees you from behind a heavy metal door?I’ll give you a pass on forgetting cellphones exist, too.”

“.......”

“Sounds reasonable,” Deaton remarks, his nose still in a book.Danny and Kira just gape.

“ _Whoa.”_

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs.  “So, now it’s _beyond_ officially time to hunt this bastard down.”So Kira and Danny settle in, grabbing books of their own and join the hunt. 

********

Deaton, very kindly, lets Stiles take a few of the books with him when he finally bails that afternoon.  Stiles doesn’t think anyone believes his ‘laundry’ excuse, but research and laundry actually work well together, what with all the waiting.He’s just then packing the last bag of clothes back into the jeep still parked in front of the laundromat when someone coughs politely behind him and greets him with a friendly smile.

Melissa’s _totally_ right, Stiles thinks with a mental wolf whistle.Deputy Parrish is a definite hottie, _especially_ in uniform.Stiles has never had a handcuff kink before, that he knows of, but he’d maybe be willing to develop one for this guy.  Between the gorgeous bright eyes and the amazing smile?  Yeah.  Handcuffs could be a thing.

“You must be Stiles,” he says, hand out to shake and even _his hands_  are attractive.Yay Melissa? 

“Aaaand you must be Melissa’s friend.”Stiles does shake his hand and is almost instantly aware that this guy?Not human.But, he doesn’t feel ‘bad/evil/off’ either, so...

“Jordan Parrish,” he confirms with another smile, as if Stiles couldn’t read the name tag.“Small world.I was just at the dry cleaners and spotted you.Was actually hoping I’d catch up with you soon — so we could talk? Or, y’know, touch bases?If you have a bit?”

“Yeah, sure? Uh... about what?”His insides drop like a cannon ball when Parrish gives him a ‘gentle’ look.“What’s wrong?Has something happened?My dad?Is it Melissa??”Stiles’ stomach jolts into his throat and a wave of ‘ _nonono_ ’ begins to creep into his mind, breath shuddering back to a thin wheeze.

Parrish’s eyes widen, alarmed.“Nothing’s wrong!” He blurts, hands held up like that alone can stop Stiles’ panicked questions or disjointedly frantic thoughts.“Nothing at all, _really!_ As far as I know, your dad’s fine, Melissa’s fine... everyone, as far as I know, is... fine!”

Stiles somehow sucks up a deep lung-full of calm, holds it, and lets it eke carefully back out.“Okay,” he chokes out, feeling queasy from the adrenaline rush. “But, just so you know?Giving me gentle, consoling looks _before_ a conversation starts?Not the best idea.With me.Ever, actually.”

Parrish nods, relaxing a little, hands falling back down to stuff into his pants pockets, where they’ll hopefully be seen as non-threatening.Stiles recognizes this tactic.He’s even used it before.

“God, I’m sorry,” Parrish blurts, blushing and looking both embarrassed and relieved.(Which is still cute.)“Most people take it as a sort of ‘good ol’ boy’ friendly charm.”

Stiles snorts, because yeah.It’s just that it’s been a long while since a cop of _any_ kind has treated him like he’s not just another cop, to some degree.   Thanks to years of station exposure, cops he understands and understands well.

“For future reference?I’m the _son of a cop_.I see right through most of the civie trade tricks and... yeah.Just, always give it to me straight, unless there’s literally no other option, for some reason, okay?Please?”His heart is only now dialing back down to calm-ish beat and he breathes deep and slow for just a minute.Parrish, honest to god, looks like a kicked puppy, and it’s _fucking adorable_.Unfair, really.

“Noted,” Parrish nods, with his blush finally receding. 

Seriously — _blushing_.

How does anyone stay _this_ fresh-faced in this town?Ever?“I really just wanted to touch base.I, uh... told your dad I’d be available if you needed anything, but...” Parrish trails off, seeing Stiles’ expression tighten.

“Okay,” Stiles says shortly.“I don’t need anything, but thanks.” Stiles turns to go, then pauses with a sigh, eyeing the dry cleaner’s across the street.There’s no coincidences in this town.Pretty much ever. 

He turns back with a second sigh.“Sorry, I—“ Stiles sighs a third time.“It’s been a bad day,” he admits.“Started with a guy missing his eyes and lips and ends with half my socks bubblegum pink, somehow,” he finishes lamely, waving a hand at the bag of laundry in the jeep.

Parrish looks sympathetic.“I heard about that guy,” he nods with an honest wince.“And I suppose pink’s not your color, then?”

That surprises a laughing snort out of Stiles, for some reason.Stress overload, probably.“Definitely not, no.”

“Walk and talk, maybe?” Parrish asks a little hopefully.Stiles locks up the jeep with a nod.

“Sure.”

It’s a good five minutes before either speaks, Parrish to collect his thoughts, maybe, and Stiles waiting for the last of his frayed nerves to burn off or smooth out.It’s a good silence, actually.It’s not often one finds that with a virtual stranger.

“I don’t know what happened between you and your dad, and I’m not going to pry, but...” Parrish frowns at the sidewalk for a second, footsteps slowing a little.“But if it was any other cop and any of their kids, I’d still be here, offering a helping hand to anyone who needs it.It’s less of a cop thing and more of a ‘me’ thing, I guess.I’m not here out of pity, or obligation or duty.I’m here, honestly, because I’d like to help.”

Yeeeeaaah, this guy?Too innocent for his own good.Maybe.Or maybe Stiles is just becoming too jaded for _anyone’s_ own good.

“Well, I appreciate the gesture? But, I’ve been doing well on my own for a while now,” Stiles says with a shrug.  Because he has.  He’s even a little proud of himself for it, too.

“Well, yeah.Melissa’s said as much, but she still worries anyway,” Parrish confirms.

“That’s mostly a mom thing, I think,” Stiles offers, shrugging.

Parrish huffs a smile.  “Probably.”

They stroll silent for another minute, the street veering into the city suburbs.“Your dad, and I’m sorry to bring him up again... he said you’d be a good person to, and I quote, ‘fill in the blanks’ with a lot of what’s happening around here.Like, maybe with the weird stuff?Do you know why he’d say that?”

 _Shhhhit_.Why the fuck— Well, hold on now...

Actually.... 

This could work.They could really use the helping hand of the law, especially if the law is another friendly supernatural.After all, he’d had a fairly good argument for it _before_ his life had fallen down around his ears.The U.S.S. Insanity this county has become since then only _adds_ to the need, really.

“Prrrrrobably because I know a lot of the intricacies of the ‘goes bump in the night’ variety?Like you, I suppose.”Stiles aims it for open-ended and _hopes_.

“Me?What about me?” Parrish is frowning at him, which is (still) kinda cute.  Stiles’ hope dwindles a little.

“You... your aura?Not the average aura?”Stiles is getting the odd impression that—

“Wait,” Parrish pauses to give him a softly awed look.“Are you _psychic_?” 

Stiles stops and blinks at him.

Yup.

Impression confirmed.  Parrish is totally spring green, fresh off the vine, babe in the woods, innocently _clueless_.

“In a manner of speaking, yes... and I think you may be too, sort of.” 

“Because of my... aura?” Parrish asks, a little awkwardly, as they begin to stroll again while Stiles looks for a delicate way to say ‘you ain’t even human, yo’.

“Well, psychic isn’t quite the word, really.For me?Magical instinct.I’m a mage.For you?Not a clue.But you’re aura’s defini...“

Stiles words trail off this time and he stops, eyes shifting around the darkening street, cautious.No, total lie.Nervous and edging toward scared. 

Parrish stops too, frowning.  “What’s wrong?”  His eyes have gone cop-serious, subtly shifting to find the source of Stiles’ obvious unease.

“Hear that?” Stiles asks softly.

Parrish frowns and tilts his head to listen.“I don’t hear anything,” he says after a long second.

“Exactly.”Because it’s somehow night already, and the night is dead quiet.Not a cricket, not a leaf skittering over the street.Not even an air conditioner’s quite hum.No children laughing, no sound of tv’s on too loud.Stiles mentally activates his super ears and listens closer.All the sounds are there, but hushed.Muted.Heavy.Dark, and getting darker.He hadn’t realized how amped up the buzz under his skin was until just now.And now?  It’s close.

 _Really_ fucking close and heading straight for them.

Parrish is looking confused, eyes still shifting to the houses, yards, cars.“It feels empty,” he says in a hushed voice.

 “Yeah, but it’s not,” Stiles chokes out, trembling. “You need to go, now,” Stiles grates out and Parrish is looking at him with concern.

“What’s wrong?You okay?”Parrish grabs his arm to maybe shake him free of whatever’s happening, and then his eyes are wide.Yeah, Parrish?  _Not_  normal. 

“What _is_ that?” Parrish asks, breath catching and swinging his head to the same direction Stiles’ is.Because now _he_ hears it too, somehow.  Stiles is sure it’s an amped up version of what Lori had been caught in.Except, now _Stiles_  is caught too, frozen and nearly breathless and it’s _coming_.Fast, wet, hungry, dark, slick and teeth and anger and glee and hunting and _almost fucking here_.

“Go,” Stiles snarls, desperately trying to cancel out his own super-hearing and finds that just as frozen as the rest of him.“Don’t listen to it, Parrish, just GO,” Stiles barks, and then maybe whimpers when the gas lamps two blocks away fade.

And then flicker.

And then die.

“Stiles?  Uh— We need to go,” Parrish urges, like Stiles hasn’t just said it twice, swinging back to him with intensely wide eyes.“C’mon!”Parrish snaps, grabbing his arm and yanks him back, to little avail. 

Stiles may as well be a titanium statue locked in place and the next set of street lamps begin to fade and the wet, evil sound gets louder.  Stiles is shivering and choked and fucking stuck which means he’s fucking _screwed_.

Parrish pulls harder, ignoring the impossibility that Stiles is somehow fused in place, eyes zipping desperately around, here and there and looking for some kind of a solution that doesn’t include leaving Stiles here when that cloud of evil whatever gets five street lamps closer. 

Make that four.It’s gaining speed.

“Just go, Parrish, please?Go to Alan Deaton, tell him what’s going on, I mean it,” Stiles urges fruitlessly, of course, because Parrish gives him a grumpy look, shaking his head like he’s disappointed Stiles even _tried_ and swings his gaze around at everything again, like he knows he’s missing the obvious solution and just can’t see it.

“Please, Parrish, go.”Stiles’ teeth start chattering hard when the cloud of nothing takes out the third set of lamps and Stiles maybe whimpers a little more.He’s never been so happy to have already emptied his bladder in the last hour or he’d be adding embarrassment to the terror gripping him motionless.

He’s _so fucked_.   _So, so_ very fucked.He’s spent all this time pondering what the hell is inside that terrifying dark and now?Now he’ll find out first hand because he can’t _move_ , can barely _breathe_ , can’t stop hearing that slick sound mixing with crunching teeth and can’t even close his _fucking eyes_ and this is soooo much worse than the kanima.He’d _welcome_ a kanima right about now.

All he can do is stand here, waiting and watching the next closest street lamps die out and listening — so he definitely hears the screech of tires plowing to a stop just behind him and a door opening and feet hitting the ground and then?

Then Stiles gets why the wolves always flinch whenever she screams. 

Because Lydia?Is really, _really_ loud. 

So loud, in fact, the cloud of hungry dark rears back by a full block, caught in a wave of banshee magic it hadn’t expected at all.

Stiles claps his hands over his ears, uselessly, and is drag-dropped backward, past that piercing wall of sound and into the SUV that’s almost already in motion by the time Lydia scrambles back into the front passenger side and points, mouth moving soundlessly at Chris and then looks back to Stiles and Parrish where they’d both collapsed half on the floor, half on the bench seats.Stiles can’t hear a damned thing, not even the blood rushing in his head (which is seriously unnerving), but sees Parrish’s and Lydia’s mouths moving, the buzz of the evil under Stiles’ skin receding in increments as they speed away.

Stiles’ palms are wet with blood when he finally pulls them down from his ears and he’s pretty sure his eardrums are toast and _fuck_ but it hurts. But _he’s_ safe and _Parrish_ is safe so he gives in to the moment and the relief and the pain and fades out without complaint.

********

The world is still silent when he wakes up.But he _does_ wake, which is definitely a happy bonus.He’s flat on his back and staring up at a vaguely familiar ceiling before Melissa’s worried face leans into view, lips moving.He shakes his head, points to his ear and she looks ready to cry.Does she not think this is fixable?

“I’ll probably be fine in a minute,” he informs her brightly, hoping he’s not shouting embarrassingly loud or something.She’s got her ‘doubt-y face’ on, and it’s mixed in with both her ‘I have some bad news about your eardrums’ face and the ( _much_ ) overused ‘you’re mentally unhinged and I’m just humoring you’ face. 

He rolls his eyes with amused patience and sits up slowly, expecting dizziness that doesn’t come.His duffle is right there on the floor between Deaton’s desk and the couch and thirty seconds (and one mojo juice) later, proves himself right.

“I’m ready now,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like an idiot, “if you’d still like to whisper sweet nothings.”

Melissa rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Oh. My. Go—“

“So _you’re_ who I get that from!” He interrupts with realization, standing and hoisting the duffle that, come to think of it, shouldn’t be here.“I’ve wondered before.”

She scowls at him, shakily.“You,” she says accusingly, pointy-pointer finger and all, “need to stop scaring me, kid,” she finishes in a small voice.Then he gets pulled into a mom hug.

“Sorry,” he mutters down into her hair.When did he get so much taller?“This was totally unintentional.I was scared too,” he admits softly.

She squeezes him one last time, then pokes his ticklish rib (he does _not_ squeak, damnit) before leading the way back out to the surgery.Deaton’s not here, apparently, and Stiles supposes he’s not the only one who knows where the spare key is hidden.He cleans out his ears with a wet wipe Chris hands him (along with the jeep’s keys) gratefully.(Dried blood in the ear just _itches_.)

Chris gives him a visual once over (nope, not dead yet,) and nods in greeting.Stiles nods back, setting the duffle back onto the exam table and begins pulling out supplies for more Mojo Juices.

“Thought you were leaving town for the weekend?” He inquires with a quick look at Chris, pulling out matches and spring water and his favorite brass dish, then dives back in for ingredients.

“So did I,” Chris says, watching Stiles’ hands work and prep with interest. “I dropped Allison off with a cousin up in San Francisco and then started getting texts from Lydia.When she didn’t answer my return calls, I came back.” 

Lydia doesn’t explain, just sits in the room’s only visitor’s chair, head bowed low and picking at her fingers a little.She looks small and a little frail, just now, hair in a messy bun and surprisingly makeup free.It worries Stiles the very, very tiniest bit that she’s out an about without her self-made armor.

“Glad you did, though,” Stiles murmurs to Chris.“Thanks.Who do I have to thank for my duffel?”Chris (somewhat grumpily) tips his head to Lydia.Stiles nods again.

“Wait,” Parrish starts, eyeing Melissa, then Stiles.“I thought you said his eardrums were ruptured?”

Melissa sighs, then shrugs.“They were.Then he drank a potion.Now they’re not!I’m seriously giving up being surprised.Really, every time I think I’ve got this town figured out—“

Stiles and Chris snort more or less in unison.Stiles just shakes his head, lighting the mixture in the brass dish, dousing it and pours it into two of Deaton’s kitten/puppy Dixie cups and hands one to Lydia, who looks startled, but takes it, eyes flitting to his with surprise and then away.Stiles taps his own cup against hers.

“To our continued good (more or less) supernatural health, and to old war buddies saving each other’s asses,” he murmurs and she twitches a smile.They drink. (They also gag and sputter with matching grimaces.) But they still smile a little, too.

“A potion?” Parrish asks, looking (like so many others, OMG _why???_ ) incredulous, like Stiles just announced he’s marrying a fish, or something.“Really?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, pulls out fresh ingredients and sets to work, nodding.“Yup, really.I say magic, yeah... but I’m thinking in maybe a thousand years or so, if mankind hasn’t burned itself out yet, it’ll just be seen as science.And they’ll laugh at their history books and think us primitive for believing anyone could, say, become invisible?”

Stiles winks at Melissa, then goes unseen, and watches Parrish’s eyes pop wide.So do Lydia and Chris’, actually.Melissa, for once, is the one grinning at the inside joke. Stiles flips it off and lets everyone gape for a minute while he works.

“HOW?” Parrish demands, looking something between delighted and possibly jealous/worried/awed?His face is saying almost too much. 

In contrast, Chris’ face is almost disturbingly blank while Lydia’s has the tiniest smile.

“Science yet to be explained?” Stiles muses, twitching a shrug. “Or, y’know... magic.”

“Huh.” Now Parrish is just sort of staring into blank space with his brow all furrowed like he’s having a very confusing revelation.

“Jordan?Just breathe,” Melissa advises wisely, like the near veteran she is.“It’ll take some getting used to.”

“This is why your dad said to talk to you about the weird stuff, isn’t it?” Parrish concludes.Melissa’s face darkens at the mention of the sheriff and Stiles goes a little colder, pauses to breathe and pull back his grumpy chill, tucks it down again, then nods once.

“Was this tv show called Haven, a while back.All the spooky and weird of a little town in Maine.There’s a character quote that was so spot on.‘There’s the town, and then there’s the town under that.But here?There’s a layer under that, too.’ Or something like that.”

Stiles shrugs, pulling his little pouch of ‘blank’, pre-wrapped, ready-to-wear crystals out (while the flame flares up spring green) and infuses a small handful with protection, watching with satisfaction while they go deep and sturdy-looking purple, one by one.“I think Beacon County is like Haven.There’s the town you see—perfectly, normally human, the one under that, that’s the somewhat ‘human with perks’ variety.Then there’s the level under that, I think, that’s sort of too ancient and powerful for our wimpy little minds to fully wrap around, but necessary to keep the planet spinning just so.Keeps it in balance. 

“This nightmare thing?It’s been feeding on the whole human population for a while now, mostly just tiny sips.  It’s what’s causing the nightmares and making everyone sick.  And I think it’s been graduating, little by little, to a heartier meal- ‘the town under that’.” The more he says, the more right it sounds.“And when it’s fed and fed well on that?I think it’ll go for dessert—‘the layer under that’.And by then?By then we’re _all_ screwed.”

He douses his pretty green flame, then hands a crystal to Chris, who’s sporting an expression Stiles is almost positive he doesn’t _want_ to understand.“Protection crystals,” Stiles explains, handing the next to Melissa, who smiles at it, then Parrish, who just sort of pokes at his, looking bemused, then to Lydia who looks wide-eyed, shaking her head and tries to give it back.

“You saved my ass, Lyds,” he says quietly.“Let this save yours, if you need it.”He plucks up another and gives her that too.“For you mom.”Lydia looks a little gutted, for some reason, but clenches them both tight in her fist.Chris gets a second one too, huffing a little in obvious annoyance. “For Allison,” Stiles insists, frowning at Chris’ frown.

Chris shakes his head again.“No, it’s just... on the open magic market?These take three days to make and never get darker than pale lavender.So the ‘normal’ kind would fetch about three grand a piece, minimum.These?Probably worth closer to ten.  Maybe fifteen, a piece.”

Stiles’ jaw _drops_.“You’re not even joking, are you?”He has to ask.Because it’s absurd.   _Really._ Chris shakes his head but looks like he’s biting back a smile.

“No joke.I’ll pay ten for both, if you can wait til tomorrow for the money.”

Stiles would laugh, but he’s too gobsmacked; he just stares at Chris until Chris shuffles his feet, looking uncomfortable. 

“Uh...” Stiles says at last.“You saw that took me like, less than a minute to make?”Even that question seems to make Chris frown, like he’s preparing to force money on Stiles, like it or not.“Look— do you plan to use it to help stop the evil-shadow-cloud-nightmare-thingy under the town?”Yes, he knows how ridiculous he sounds, but the damned thing doesn’t have a name.

“Of course,” Chris says at once.

“Then it’s free.They all are.You’ll use it to save lives and hopefully the people you save will do the same.Everyone’s a little safer for a little longer.And I’m sure as fuck not taking money just so people can be safe.”Stiles stares at Chris unblinking, lets his own face go blank and serious until Chris finally deflates, then nods.“Just... don’t loan it to anyone who won’t follow the code, please,” Stiles adds.

“Thank you,” Chris says, simply.Stiles nods in return.Lydia actually ‘signs’ thank you, but her eyes say she means it.He nods to her, too.

“So this’ll work?Like, really work?” Parrish asks, watching Chris uncertainly.Stiles has the feeling those two will be seeing a lot of each other in the near future.

Stiles smiles a little while he packs his gear away.“I got werewolf-handled up against my jeep.Twice, actually, in the same night.Claws and fangs just sort of vanished, as soon as they entered my personal bubble.So, yeah.They work.But I wouldn’t treat it like a bullet-proof shield, if I were you.I have a feeling if you were getting shot at, the magic would just... let you get winged, maybe, instead of you taking a headshot.” 

He zips up the duffel and hoists it back to his shoulder.“So.The evil whatzit didn’t get the meal it expected; pretty sure we need to find who it _did_ snack on.”

“Wait, what?” Parrish looks, _again_ , like he’s sure Stiles is missing a few marbles.“You want to go _back_!?”

“Want to?” Stiles shakes his head, looking a little pained.  “No.But it fed on something — on some _one_.I think the ‘who’ in this equation is important right now.So... I need to go back.”

********

Melissa departs with Lydia in tow while Parrish insists Stiles take the front seat in Chris’s oversized, gas guzzling, monstrosity of an SUV.Turns out Parrish?  _A little sneaky_.From the front seat, Stiles can’t exactly avoid conversation.Or questions.

Parrish reminds Stiles a little of himself, before this last summer.Inquisitive to the point of annoying, and excited about everything while only willing to believe in so much without proof.He peppers Chris and Stiles both with a seemingly endless list questions until the SUV halts and then (finally) it’s almost quiet again.

Almost.

Someone’s tv _is_ on too loud now and there’s cats fighting somewhere on the next street over.There’s a yapping little dog in the window on the left and some guy smoking in the shadow of a stoop up the block who departs swiftly, seeing Parrish in uniform.The crickets are a soft sound, like they’re half-asleep.

Everything else is normal, on the surface.Stiles lets his vision go soft and unfocused and turns his head for a ‘corner of the eye’ view to see the damage just beyond his normal vision.Then he shudders heartily and wonders if he can afford to burn these shoes when they’re done here because the evil stain? It’s _everywhere_ , thicker than he’d last seen it, though that was in the daytime, so.Maybe daylight dilutes it? Burns it away?

He picks his way up the street cautiously, trying to step around the thicker spatters and in retrospect, he can understand why Chris and Parrish are giving him twin looks of ‘wtf you doing?’.  He tries to explain, and gives up halfway through when he spots a house that he ‘just knows’ was the backup meal. 

He stares at it for a few long minutes before telling them there’s a family inside.  Chris and Parrish both look a little stricken, Chris more so, because he believes Stiles.Parrish is willing to call in an anonymous domestic disturbance once he gets his cruiser back, but is now giving Stiles a somewhat suspicious look that Stiles (mostly) ignores.

“I have an alibi,” he reminds Parrish.“ _You_ , remember?”Chris snort-coughs behind his hand, but sobers and frowns back at the house. 

“Don’t feel too bad, man,” Stiles tells him after Parrish jogs off to retrieve his cruiser.  “They’re a family of wendigos.”

Chris frowns again.  Really, his face will seriously stick that way, if he doesn’t cut it out.  “You can’t know that,” he declares.

“I can’t know that anymore than I know this is the right house, no.And Lydia can’t know when someone’s about to die... except she does.”

Chris purses his lips and Stiles sighs at him. 

“I probably wouldn’t know, if it wasn’t this evil whazit doing the killing, but it did.And so I do.”

“Why you, though?” Chris demands.“That makes no sense to me.” 

“Since when do magic and evil make sense??Why did Lydia text you, knowing you were out of town?Why not any of the pack, who were, I assume, already here?In this town?The list of ‘why’ questions will never, ever get shorter.” 

Chris grinds his teeth, looking frustrated.Stiles grinds his right back, patience lost, because it’s already been a total fucker of a day.

“Well, why _did_ it choose me?” Stiles demands instead, a little fed up.Because it’s not like he ever _asked_ for this.“It started haunting my sorry ass nightmare-wise just after I used mountain ash for the first time.Why did it choose my _dad_ as such an easy mark?Why has it come after me twice using my father and your daughter? Why did I have to die alone just so I could finally figure out how to live the same fucking way?” Stiles whips back acidly, then snaps his mouth shut, embarrassed. Feeling a little ashamed, he turns back to the house covered with a super-thick layer of ‘ick’, wondering where the hell any of that came from.

Chris doesn’t answer.But he does stop asking why. 

********


	12. Another Awful Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully Derek will learn from his mistakes.
> 
> If he survives this, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Here, have another insomnia-induced chapter.
> 
> Uhhh... warnings for... weirdness? Also, a compound fracture. (Broken arm)
> 
> Aaaand... for Derek-weirdness? Temporary death? Maybe?
> 
> Dunno. Going to bed now.

***********

Chris texts Stiles the next day.As expected, the police (Parrish included) find all five bodies, though according to Chris, no immediate evidence they were anything but human.Stiles texts him back after a bit of time staring at the walk-in freezer (for some odd reason) of the diner and tells them to look for a hidden door in the foyer. 

Chris’s final text simply said ‘Found it’

Stiles (uneasily) finishes a long morning shift at the reopened diner, though with the evening manager, Mary.  Amy had resigned citing ‘this town is getting too fucked up for me’ as her reasoning.  Stiles can’t blame her.  It might be smart to start encouraging the population at large to do the same — cut and run.

Dan at the bar remembers to call this time, saying it was dead quiet (almost too quiet?) but that he’d still see Stiles on Wednesday?  The band that Stiles hasn’t thought about in weeks will be playing again, Dan reports, and it would no doubt be busier.  Stiles isn’t sure he wants to go, though.  And doesn’t have a good excuse as to why.  Whatever, he’s got three days.

He spends the rest of Sunday afternoon at the tea shop finishing homework, finally making the mountain ash rope with the rowan tree char he’s been meaning to try out and mixing up the easiest of his useful potions to start handing out willy-nilly as needed.  Danny and Kira (and for an hour or so, Brett) hunt through Deaton’s books, tagging anything that sounds similar, symptom-wise while Danny gets the Spark Notes recap of all the weird and funky goings on in the county.  

Just after dusk, Stiles feels it, like a wave crashing over him and everything goes grey.

 

***********

 

Derek clenches the sinks edge and tries to focus his breathing.Difficult though, when his gums won’t stop bleeding and his senses are swamped with the taste of his own blood through the silent agony of holding his mind tight together when it feels so determined to scatter like dry leaves on the wind.

Cora and Peter had departed to pick up a few more of Stiles’ restoratives from Deaton’s (completely ignoring Derek’s order not to) but now he’s grateful for the solitude.  It was becoming more difficult to hide just how much pain he was in.  Especially from them.  

He shudders through another painful, nauseated wave and stares into his own reflection in the mirror once the worst passes; he only vaguely notices the off-shade of red flickering in his eyes.

He’d caused this.  He and Stiles both, maybe.  Stiles, for being so innocently, stupidly, break-ably human (except, apparently not — not entirely) and Derek himself for making damn near _every_ wrong choice since Paige.  

Why couldn’t he get it right?  Why this?  Why now?  Why hadn’t Derek let Chris kill him when he first returned to town?  Why hadn’t Derek just let Peter be the alpha?  Honestly, they’d probably all be better off right now if he had.

But now he has responsibilities.  He has a whole band of misfits that somehow manage to make a semi-functional pack, and he has his uncle _alive_ and finally _sane_ and his little sister _here_ and _whole_ and neither of them even _remotely_ safe with that thing out there lurking and slithering into their dreams — into their _minds_.  _None_  of them are safe.  Maybe none of them ever has been, if Deaton’s right about this madhouse being a beacon.  

And he’d gotten Stiles killed.  Derek grips the sink a little harder, head bowing down.

Derek and his stupid choices and misplaced protective streak and unintentional cruelty — Derek had gotten _Stiles_ killed.  Never mind that Stiles is walking and talking again  _now_ — _Derek_ had gotten him _killed._

His teeth clench hard when the next wave of pain hits, hands tightening enough to crack the granite edge of the sink and peel a fingernail loose to plop blood-wet to the floor and a miserable whine escapes unbidden.  

He stares into his own flickering eyes and swallows hard, hardly noticing the sharp edge of the two teeth that somehow scrape down his gullet, too absorbed with the fine line of inky black trailing like a tear from his eye and down his too-thin left cheek.  And then from his nose, down to his lip.  

They’ll be alright with him gone, won’t they?  They will be.  They’ll _have_ to be.  It’s not like they can get much worse off, after all.  

The world goes grey and dark when the next wave hit and he drops hard, panic and confused pain and too much sound and then open air and the scent of blood and sick and forest in the distance and his lips part on a screaming roar that morphs sickly into a barbaric shrieking howl.  On the horizon, the last tinges of pink fade slowly into starlight.  The sun has finally set.

***********

“Stiles?!” Stiles is standing outside the shop, somehow, and Danny’s (for some reason) physically barring his way, looking worried.“Hey!You okay?”If Danny’s level of concern says anything, Stiles doesn’t look okay.Stiles shrugs, feels it building again, hears it echo and the next wave takes him to his knees, gasping.

Stiles swallows and chokes on air, shaking his head to clear away the grey.  Then Kira’s there too, eyes just as worried as Danny’s, but squinting at him before her gaze slides down to land on his chest.  Her lips part on a silent “oh no”.  She asks a simple question.

“Who, Stiles?”

“Derek,” he gasps out. “He’s dying.”

***********

Turns out Danny can drive a stick, just not very well.  (Which would be hilariously ironic if it weren’t right now.)  Still, he gets them to the loft in just under thirty minutes, which is only seven minutes longer than it would’ve taken Stiles.  Stiles is out of the jeep, trunk open, almost before it stops moving.  He’s yanking the duffel open and rifling through uncertainly, pausing to toss his cell to a bewildered Danny three seconds before it starts to ring.

“It’s Deaton,” Danny says, then answers it himself when Stiles just nods tersely and then finally just yanks the entire duffel out of the jeep and lets Kira close it up while he marches to the door.  Who knows what he might need?  

***********

Jackson smells Danny even through the door and before the elevator’s even rattled to a halt.  His stomach does an odd, guilty little flip.  Danny hasn’t returned even one of his calls or texts since the vet clinic.  And now he’s here.  With _Stiles_ , of all people.  

Jackson’s honestly a little lost on how to feel about it; jealous that Stiles gets friend time with Danny?  Yes, but... Stiles will keep him safe.  Jackson’s also a little lost on how he even knows that, but thinks it’s what Deaton had said about the effect Stiles has on people in general.  If the pack’s not there to keep Danny safe, Stiles will.  And that Kira girl, Cora had said, is pretty badass too.

Jackson rolls the loft door aside when he heard the elevator clank to a stop and sighs (with secret and confusing relief) when Stiles marches through, giving him a fractional head nod of greeting that Jackson returns.  Kira scowls at him a little as she follows Stiles in, but Danny actually slows to a stop, looking visibly conflicted at Jackson before he just sighs, claps Jackson on the shoulder and squeezes, and then follows after Kira.  If Jackson had an actual wolf tail, he thinks it might be wagging.  They’ll be okay, he and Danny.  They all will.  They just need to find Derek first.

***********

Peter and Cora damn near rush Stiles when he nears the dining room where most everyone, including Deaton but sans Chris and Allison, are huddled around a map of the area spread out on the table.  Stiles won’t lie, it’s nice to be hugged by pack, (even if it is Peter) but he’s not expecting it and it almost immediately sets his teeth on edge and has his magic radiating out in a frosty chill until they both step back, looking surprised and worried.  

Stiles shakes his head, opens his mouth to explain and then Scott’s _right there_ , rushing forward, all hopeful eyes and reaching out like he plans to glomp Stiles in a Scott-buddy-hug-of-awesome that has Stiles tripping back and his magic flaring out like a whip, ready to defend him.  Stiles snags it tight before it gets far, redirects it and essentially freezes Scott’s feet to the concrete floor in a solid two feet thick block of ice.

The room pauses, everyone looking a little shocked, (except Lydia, who rolls her eyes at Scott) and Scott looking (the moron) _wounded_ , and Stiles closes his eyes, breathes deep and tucks the magic back in, deep and cool and calming.  He can feel Deaton’s concern from where he’s still hovering over a map with a crystal pendulum, looking as tense as Stiles feels.

“I’m not... all that comfortable being touched these days, okay?  So please.  _Don’t_ ,” he says, eyes still closed.  It’s Kira’s soothing energy at his shoulder that has him opening his eyes.  She nods, looking a little pensive but certain.

“They won’t,” she says, raising her brows to the pack in a way that has them _all_ nodding agreement.  Even Scott, who’s face has gone nearly as blank at Stiles’, though he also frowns at his now-frozen feet, too.  Stiles is alright with letting him do that for a while.

“Sorry,” Cora says, looking apologetic, then rallies a little, sucking in a breath.  “We can’t find Derek,” she says, voice rough.  “And he has no scent.   _At all._ ”

Stiles blinks at that, then at Peter who shrugs helplessly, head shaking.  “This is all new to me.  Alphas can hide their scent, but— We heard his roar, if one can _call_  it that, but now—“

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, frowning at the floor, thinking.  Something catches his eye at the far edge of the living room in a spattered trail leading toward the balcony.   _Seriously?_   Has no one seen this yet?  Kira follows when he stoops down to investigate, and sucks in a sharp breath when he warily scoops some onto his fingers to test it.

“What?” Isaac asks, hovering just behind, looking harried.  “Ugh, _gross_ ,” he mutters, nose wrinkling.  “What _is_ that?”

Stiles... tries not to freak out.  Not on the outside, anyway, when he holds it up to show everyone else.  Cora and Peter both suck in a sharp breath and Jackson goes pale.  Clearly they’ve all seen it before too.  Deaton goes a shade paler and his eyes wider and slightly panicked.

“If this is what he’s bleeding right now?  He’s almost out of time,” he tells Isaac. The inky goo looks _almost_ like the same nightmare-slick he’s seen far too much of.  But it’s not that.  Or, not _only_ that.  It’s the black, bloody goop of poisoned blood that almost killed Derek when Kate had shot him, way back when.

***********

Deaton’s crystal can only tell them that Derek’s sticking to Hale territory, but it can’t seem to pinpoint _where_.  Despite whatever connection Stiles has that has him so certain Derek’s dying, his magic is being almost deliberately vague, like it’s _upset_ with him, or something.  Which is weird, because it’s just his subconscious.  Right?  

Deaton’s been giving him odd, silent looks and Stiles knows there’s going to be a lecture of some kind after they’ve rescued Derek from whatever the poison is doing to him, and Stiles is actually looking forward to it.  He’d like some answers now, please.

There’s only one pressing question right now, though.  ‘Where’s Derek?’

Isaac and Cora begin to mark the map, grid-style, like a grid field search that Stiles doesn’t comment on, since he has no better ideas.  But he doesn’t think that’ll help.  

Right now, it’s Danny’s almost unnerving silence that has his attention.  Because Danny, for anyone who looks deeply enough, is starting to _glow_ a little.  Well, his aura, anyway.

 _Huh._ Stiles... hadn’t seen that coming.  Because it’s _Danny_ , easily the most normal of them all.

Pretty soon everyone’s staring at Danny, mostly just perplexed.  Because they’d been looking to Deaton as the ranking ‘advisor’ in the room, but Deaton’s focused on Stiles, who’s almost _laser_ -focused on Danny and the whole thing would be comical if there wasn’t a life on the line.

“You see something I don’t?” Kira asks Stiles finally, leaning into his shoulder and squinting at Danny, who’s still oblivious to all the silent attention he’s gathered.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, walking forward, the crush of werewolves parting like the Red Sea until he’s just across the dining table from Danny, who’s eyes are misty and far away.  “Danny boy?”  

No response.

“Danny?” Jackson asks, edging up to him, leaning in a little to try to catch his gaze.  “Earth to Danny?”

“Not earth,” Danny mumbles dreamily.  “Energy.”

Deaton frowns, leaning in himself.  “What kind of energy?” He asks gently.

Danny sways a little, eyes narrowing a millimeter.  “Deep and flowing and eternal.”

Stiles blinks, standing straight again, then blinks at Deaton and Kira as they finally catch on.  “Ley lines,” they say in unison.

“What’s a ley line?” Danny asks, then shrinks back a little, seeing everyone staring at him, mostly wide-eyed.  “What?  I miss something?”

Because _of course_ there’s a catch, Stiles thinks.

“Ley lines are a type of a-typical energy, mostly like pathways, or deep-streaming currents of mystical energy that helps to bind everything to this plane of existence.  It’s also the elemental fabric of what makes Beacon county a beacon,” Deaton explains, then pushes the map toward Danny again, eyes shrewd.  “Which one is he on, Danny?”

Danny looks surprised to be asked, but even as he’s shrugging with a look of ‘how the hell should I know?’, his finger darts out and spears a point on the map without a second’s pause.  Stiles huffs out a tiny smile, eyebrows high with surprise.

“ _Why_ would I even know that, if I don’t know what a ley line even is?” Danny asks, still obliviously pointing, then begins to look uncomfortably confused at all the _continued_ attention, shifting a little on his feet.  Stiles just grins while Kira, predictably, snickers a little.

“You might not know, Danny... but you’re finger does,” Stiles tells him, with a head-nod to the table.  Danny’s eyes go wide and he jerks his hand back, then hides the rogue finger with his other hand, like it’d been embarrassing him.  “Welcome to the world of ‘not one hundred percent human’, buddy,” Stiles tells him.

***********

There was a minor disagreement on whether or not Danny should even come out with them to track down Derek.  Isaac, Erica, Jackson and Scott were all firmly on the side of ‘no’ and everyone else all for it, Danny himself included, who was more than a little insulted that they’d try to oust him without even giving him a chance.  

The four betas dropped whatever points of ‘not safe’, ‘can’t help’, ‘unknown factor’ they’d been trying to argue when Stiles himself simply asked, quietly (and more than a little pissed off), exactly how well any of them thought their _last_  attempt at keeping the poor, useless, fragile little human had gone.  

Lydia, still silent, nodded briskly, looking like she agreed with Stiles completely.

Kira, despite her misgivings, kindly cracks Scott out of the block of ice with a well-placed mini bolt of lightning (that she was clearly tempted to misdirect _upward_ a few feet) and they all rush out and toward the preserve, spreading into groups of threes to possibly, if they can, herd Derek back toward the loft where they can contain and hopefully help him.  

Stiles is just trying not to think too hard about what condition Derek might be in when they _do_ find him.

Kira was reluctant to break from either Stiles _or_ Danny, but agreed that the major magic powers would be more effective separately.  Danny easily keeps pace with Stiles (who has his duffel strapped tight to his back) and Cora (still looking as freaked out as Stiles feels about whether or not Derek will survive this), jogging through the dim moonlit forest in silence.  Stiles can practically feel Danny’s mind stuck on the issue of his apparent non-humanity.  

Stiles brushes Danny’s shoulder with his own every few minutes, a silent reminder that whatever happens, Danny won’t have to do his own supernatural self-discovery alone.  Danny half-nods to him, sentiment caught.

Finding Derek is actually the easy part — because Derek’s not shy about making himself heard and what they hear is pretty wretched.  Cora’s whimpering almost too low to hear, but follows that terrible screechy growl right up until they hear a shout of pain, off to their right where Peter, Scott and Lydia had been just a moment ago.

“Shit,” Cora snarls and darts off in that direction while Stiles holds Danny back from hurrying after her, head shaking and peering up into the trees, tracking the faint sound of crackling branches and hears the other groups veering closer.  He slips off his unseen amulet and tosses it over Danny’s head even while Danny’s eyes widen and he reaches to yank it away, shaking his head.

“Danny,” Stiles whispers.  “Just wait for it,” he insists, passing over the roll of dark ash rope.  “There’s mountain ash bound into it.  He won’t be able to get it off once it’s on.”  Danny huffs and (reluctantly) sees the wisdom when Stiles pulls out his own little baggie of ash while tossing the duffel to the side, but even as Danny goes unseen in a blink, they both know this could end so very, very badly.  For Stiles, at least.

But it doesn’t, thankfully.  

Well, not for Danny or Stiles.  

Peter practically falls from the branches of a thick-trunked oak fifteen seconds later, claw marks that are sticky with that sickly black goo have raked from his cheek, twisting down his neck before ending just under his collarbone, then collapses more or less at Stiles’ feet while curled tight around Cora, who’s looking shocky and a little broken.

“He’s feral,” Peter grits out, loosening his hold on Cora, who’s shivering and whining and holding her _very_  broken arm, bone having ripped through skin and poking outward grotesquely in not one, but _two_ places.  “He’s not Derek right now.”

A screeching snarl from their left has a whip-thin form speeding straight at Stiles, eyes a sickly red and saggy, blistered skin wrapped around almost nothing but bone and rage and somehow, _still Derek_.  Stiles will have to contemplate later how that’s even possible, but for now Deaton’s rushing in from the side with a handful of ash, and Stiles is bracing himself with a handful of his own, and Danny’s prepared unseen— 

Until _Scott_ comes flying out of fucking nowhere, tackles Stiles to the ground ( _What The Ever Loving FUCK??_ ) before he’s rolling himself up again and darting after Derek who’d just streaked back into the trees in the blink of an eye while Stiles curses and Deaton mutters under his breath.  

Danny winks back into sight with a scowl of his own, a length of the ash twine looped into a lasso shape to give both Deaton and Stiles his own ‘wtf’ expression while Peter hauls Cora off to the side to begin resetting her arm.

“What’s that idiot doing?” Danny demands in a harsh whisper. “Derek was _inches_ from the loop, then changed directions once Scott showed!”

“I don’t know!” Stiles seethes, glaring into the dark.  “If you can hear me, Scott, lead him back here, _now_ , or so help me, I’ll let _Kira_ decide which insect I’ll be mutating you into for the next month,” he says darkly, the magic itching under his fingertips to do just that.  Deaton gives him an unreadable look, but says nothing. 

Scott must’ve believed him, though, because he vaults up and over Stiles completely a minute later with a stupid, showy flip, and Derek is hurdling straight at Stiles again with Erica, Boyd and Isaac rushing cautiously after.  

But Derek stops abruptly and a full two feet from Stiles, suspended almost motionless by the dark cord that’s somehow wrapped around him from shoulder to ankle and _hovering_ , somehow, nearly a foot off the ground.  Stiles isn’t the only one who’s gawping at the oddly floating werewolf who’s snapping his jaws ineffectually at the air, but he thinks he’s earned the privilege, just this once.

“Uh... Danny?  Please tell me that was you?”  Stiles implores, stepping to the side and following the cord’s end to where it simply vanishes into thin air, then grins back at Danny when he reappears with a huffing laugh at his own handiwork.

 _“Wow,”_  Danny says, a little awed.  “All I had to do was _think_ it, and—“

“ _That_ ,” Deaton says, frowning and maybe a little disturbed, peering at Derek, “should _not_ be possible.”

“Except, hey!” Stiles says, excitedly, trying not to frown at Deaton. “Apparently it is!”  

Deaton should know better, Stiles thinks.  Wielding mountain ash is mostly about belief.  To be fair, though, Stiles had never once considered that a werewolf, feral or otherwise, could be contained and suspended in thin air looking less like a weapon of rabid destruction and more like the _world’s angriest balloon_.

“Wow,” Jackson says, approaching, then lifting an impressed eyebrow at Danny, who’s still grinning like a doof.  “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

Kira’s trying to smile, but she, like Stiles is now, is a little preoccupied with studying Derek.  And Derek, even contained, would clearly eat them all alive.  Or would, that is, if he still had more than a few sparse teeth left, fanged or blunt.  His eyes are weeping that brackish blood and there’s oozing sores and pustules _everywhere_ , the top of his bald, papery head, covering his torso, legs, arms, where they’re bunched tight to his sides, the rope just shy of cutting straight through to the bone, and right down to his nail-less feet.  Through maybe through luck alone, he still has grungy black boxers clinging loose at his too-thin hips. 

Derek, to anyone who has eyes, should obviously be _dead_.  It’s only his wolfiness that’s keeping him in motion.

Everyone’s silent now and Stiles doesn’t realize his eyes have welled up until Kira leans against him, her own eyes a little glassy.  Deaton’s expression is more bleak than Stiles has ever seen it — devastated and sick.  It’s Peter who finally asks, because no one else has the heart to.

“Can he be saved?” Peter asks quietly, though it’s Deaton’s miserable sigh and Cora’s choked noise that sounds like a collective ‘no’, it’s not actually Cora or Deaton that Peter’s asking.  His eyes are calm and serious and fixed on _Stiles_.  

Stiles swallows hard, biting his lip and shuffles a little closer to Derek, peering into those sickly eyes.  There’s nothing of ‘Derek’ looking back that Stiles can see, but there is _something_.  He feels it, more than sees it.... and it feels like _sorrow_.  It feels like _defeat_.  Stiles narrows his eyes with a scowl.  (Because _really??_ Defeat is _not_ a fucking option) and the Derek-thing?  

Narrows his eyes  _right back._

“He’s still in there,” Stiles says with certainty, then blinks around to find Lydia’s eyes on Derek too, that same tiny smile on her lips as she’d had the night before.  “You see it too, don’t you?” He asks her.  She lifts her head, surprised to be addressed, but nods once, decisively.

Stiles turns to address Deaton, who’s openly frowning at him.  “I don’t know if your potions will be enough,” Deaton says straight out.  “And anything more — I think it might be dangerous for you to try.”

“Do you have a better option?” Stiles asks quietly and maybe a bit judgmentally because Deaton’s lips thin a little but he shakes his head a second later.  “I’m not a big fan of giving up, Doc.  The last time I did that...” Stiles swallows hard, remembers the mixed company he’s currently in. “It didn’t end well,” he says pointedly, and Deaton’s face relaxes a touch in sympathy.

“If you try, it could end a similar way this time, too,” Deaton cautions.

“What are you talking about?” Erica snarls. “It’s Derek!  If he can help, let him!”  But for all her passion, she looks worried.  Boyd lays a hand on her shoulder, but even he looks concerned.  _For Stiles._

Stiles feels like he’s back at the diner, suddenly, forcing his dad to face up to his own issues and feeling as though it’s a self-punishment of some kind.  He _hates_ this, hates that he has to make these choices at all, let alone with an audience.  

But is there really even a choice?  If there were just he and Derek, no matter how pissed off Stiles was... could he really just watch him fade away?  Or more pointedly, _rot_ away?  Would Derek, if it were the other way around?

He lays a hand (despite the surround sound of panicked pack voices yelling no) on Derek’s cheek and Derek’s snarl dies away, leaving a high, pained whine of desperation and misery that yanks even more useless tears into Stiles’ eyes and the Derek-thing presses _closer_ to his hand, his eyes almost _pleading_.  Derek may not be able to see him through the haze of madness, but he knows him anyway.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles chokes out to Deaton.  “But I can’t do nothing at all.”

***********

Everyone, maybe even Deaton, looks a little more hopeful at that, and so when Stiles whimsically asks Danny to find the strongest ley line in the territory, not a one contradicts him.  Deaton does bow out then, though, his duties in the clinic sweeping him away. But he leaves promising to call Alpha Ito on Kira’s behalf, Danny’s father, and the Argents.  Cell reception, it seems, pretty much dies at the tree line these days.

Danny’s handed the Derek-mobile (Cora snarled at Erica over the name, but damnit, _it stuck_ ) (Derek will likely maim them _all_ when he’s back to his usual grumpy self) off to Lydia and spent the next five minutes explaining why they need to stop asking him about the ley lines when he hasn’t got a clue how to find them, all the while not really noticing that he’d been hiking dead on into the trees until he finally stopped, heaving a sigh.  Then he asked (nervously) how the hell they’d gotten out here when he knows they were closer to the lights of the town.  

Hm. Well...  That could be problematic for Danny without someone to tail him.  At all times.  

Maybe Kira knows what’s the what with him and his funky new ability.  Danny’s mingling a little with the pack now, (and Jackson looks _so_ hopeful) unlike Stiles and Kira, who are mostly checking over Derek’s aura.  He’s not infected like Danny’s mother was, not physically, but the psychic connection runs deep, with dark tendrils spearing into his mind like barbed little hooks.

Stiles, against his own better judgement, trickles a little of his own energy down that tenuous connection that alerted him to Derek’s suddenly failing condition and Derek, for a short second, ‘looks’ back at him.  So does the inky nightmare shadow hiding (feeding) in the barbs.  And it smiles too, lipless and slick-black warping eyes and rears straight up at Stiles, snapping it’s teeth with a hissing growl.  

Kira’s eyes are scary-wide and looking down at Stiles a minute later, and he stares up into her face from the ground, breathless for a second while Danny hurries over.

“What the hell was that?” Danny demands, rubbing his arms nervously, like it’ll rub off whatever horrible sensation that had accompanied it.

“Yeaaaah,” Stiles begins.  “So... a part of it has, like, latched onto his mind; into his mind?  Whatever — it didn’t appreciate me stopping in to say hello.”  Stiles winces, letting Danny haul him back up and onto his feet, hissing at the pain in his back and to his horror, his fingers find a small, raw split lowdown next to his now-bruised and tender spine.  Raw, and a little bloody.  “Fuck,” he breathes out.  “This complicates things.”

 

***********

 

“Okay, strategy meeting,” Stiles mutters.“Big kid table only,” he says quietly, tugging his unseen amulet off Danny’s head and back onto his own.To the rest of the pack, who are looking a little bewildered (or insulted - ‘Big kid table? Really?’) he says, a little louder, “Be right back!”

He takes Danny and Kira to the side, unseen, ignoring the exclamations of the pack who hadn’t yet seen that nifty trick.  Derek just growls at the spot they’d vanished from, whining a little in between snarls.

“Stiles, you’re freaking me out,” Kira declares.

“Check my back, would you?”

Kira goes silent, but pulls out her cellphone and it’s handy flashlight and moves around behind him to lift the bottom edge of his hoody and shirt and hisses in a breath of her own.  “Stiles— it _just_ did this?  Just now?”

“Yeah, sort of,” he says, feeling another swelling bruise up front under his ribs.  Kicked by a boot, if memory serves. (It does, _far_  too vividly.)  “Technically, that’s the first two, well no... three major injuries it gave me.  It just re-bruised and reopened.”

“Oh, god.” Kira’s thinking the same as Stiles is, he sure, just based off her complexion paling.  “It’ll reopen all of them?  _All,_ all of them?”

Stiles winces and shrugs.  “It... might?”

“Stiles,” Danny crouches close, deliberately not looking at Stiles’ back, since Stiles hadn’t invited him to, and gives him his most serious expression.  “Whatever happened, if I’m reading the two of you right, and have been, maybe, for a while... the first time it happened, you _died_.”  Stiles gives him calm eyes for a long few seconds, then nods.  “Which means saving Derek?  It might _kill_ you.  Again.”

Kira breathes out something, Stiles thinks, in japanese that sounds like a great curse word.  “Stiles...” she starts, “I know you want to save him—“

“No, Kira.” He turns and gives her his most honest answer.  “I _need_ to.  I didn’t ‘feel’ he was dying because of some magical fluke, and you know it.”

“So how did you?” Danny demands, perplexed.

Stiles sighs.  Another truth he’d rather not face, had been doing a damn fine job of ignoring for weeks, actually.  This particular truth just from innocently meditating on his own ley line and checkin’ out his own nifty-looking aura and he just— he _hates_ this.  _All_ of this.  Every cold, cruel, magical micron of it.  “Pack bond.”  

Danny frowns.  “I thought—“

“I’m not—,” Stiles cuts off, dropping his eyes. “I’m not pack to them.  Probably not even to Derek.  But they are to me.  He is, to me.  Even when I hate him, which is never, because I’m a fucking pushover sometimes.  But he _is_ my pack.  Just like the rest of them.  Just like you two.  Just because _they_ don’t feel it, doesn’t make it less real on my end.”  

Kira looks unsurprised, but maybe a little heartbroken on his behalf.  

Danny’s expression is _absolutely_ heartbroken on his behalf, and also borders on some expression that Stiles thinks could maybe set someone on fire.  

From a mile away.  

While they’re underwater.  

Danny chokes back the expletives, trying to grasp it all.

“But— the way they’ve been talking about possibly losing Derek— like just the loss of even _a single_ pack member that way, just cut off...“

“Yeah... it stings, a bit,” Stiles mutters. “It almost killed me.”  It should’ve killed him, he thinks.  Some of those days, the worst of those days, he even wished it had.  And that was before he even _knew_ about the mystical shit.

“And then this thing infected your dad... and it did kill you.”

Stiles nods, slowly.

“Is there _any_ chance of talking you out of this?”  Danny asks hopefully.

“Your mom is your pack, Danny.  Could I have talked you out of it?  Even if it meant your life?”  Danny looks torn, then angry, then sort of devastated.  “Then you get it.”  

Danny growls, at that — a human noise of frustration and he almost pulls back and away, like he could run from the situation entirely. (Stiles can totally sympathize.) Danny squeezes his eyes shut... then shakes his head, finally.

”Not to mention... Derek’s the alpha.  If this thing gets all the way through him?  It’s an automatic opening to the rest of the pack, I think.”  Kira manages a few more curses, looking incensed.

“This sucks,” Danny bites out, like it’s the very truth of life.

“Yup.”

Because some days, it actually is. 

Kira starts a quiet litany of foreign words Stiles feels certain would make even sailors blush.  Or applaud.  Danny has his ‘ready for battle’ face on now, the one that had him literally dodging bullets a mere two days ago.

“Okay, so... assuming this isn’t going to kill you, permanently, you’re going to need medical attention.  You have anything in that ‘duffel of holding’?” Danny asks, beginning to stand.  Stiles tugs him back down, quirking a grin at the reference.

“Well, Deaton gave it to me, so I’m pretty sure it is a magic duffel, so... maybe?  But first? The pack puppies aren’t going to like this being done.  They’ll try to stop me.  They’ll try to get _both of you_ to stop me.  They’ll get Lydia to try to stop me, maybe.”

“We won’t let them,” Danny says straight off.  “I get it.  I saw my mom.  And I know ‘cousin Miguel’ isn’t supposed to be crying ink while looking all 28 Days Later meets the Walking Dead on steroids, so... I’ve got your back.”

Stiles bites back a grin.  Ahh, the memories.  “There should be a salve, in the duffel.  Smells like mint, worked for my face, as you saw.  And knee.  And ribs.  But when I put up the ash line, it needs to _stay_ up.  As far as the pack is concerned, there’ll be hell to pay.  Even if it means saving Derek.”

“Stiles...” Kira, his badass bestie, looks _so_ torn.  She just stares at him for a long, long minute, then just... hugs him.  “I’ve got your back.  I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” she says again.  “Where I want to be.”  She pulls away and lets her fox snarl at him, eyes blazing orange for just a second.  “But if you _die-_ die?  _I’ll kick your ass_.”

***********

The pack doesn’t know it’s going down until it’s already in motion.  And by then, Stiles is more or less straddling Derek on the ground, pouring restoratives into him almost as quick as he can uncork them.  Kira and Danny guard them both while one by one, the pack realize that it’s happening _now_ , whether they’re ready or not.

“Is there some reason you’re rushing this?” Peter asks, though he hardly needs to.  But when he doesn’t get an answer beyond Danny flashing him a nervous look, he sashays over, eyes narrowing.  They narrow almost to slits when he reaches the ash line that most _definately_ wasn’t there only a moment ago.  “Stiles? Danny? Miss Yukimura?  That is my alpha — my nephew in there.  What are you doing?”  The dry tone is gone, replaced with authority and a smidge of alarm, twice so when he smells blood and spots the back of Stiles’ hoodie wet and sticking a little to Stiles’ pants at the bottom edge.

Kira lifts her chin, calm and sure.  “Derek doesn’t have much time,” she states quietly.  “And Stiles plans to make sure you get ‘his grumpy ass’ (his words, not mine) back in one whole, un-infected piece.  However much it takes.”

Peter nods, slowly.  “And that led to Stiles bleeding, _how_?”  The rest of the pack are beginning to notice the odd note in Peter’s voice.  Jackson and Scott walk over, twin expressions of confusion, then mild alarm when they reached the barrier.  Cora, arm finally healed, joins Peter, leaning into him with her own concerned eyes on Stiles and her brother.  Erica, Boyd and Isaac are last, Erica looking a little freaked out when she hits the barrier, sees the single-minded focus on Stiles’ face while he shuts his eyes, one hand on Derek’s chest, the other cupping Derek’s (suddenly) strangely calm face.

“Why?” Peter demands curtly, “is Stiles bleeding?”  Kira stands her ground, lips thinning.  

It’s Danny who answers. “Because the entity... the shadow has latched onto Derek’s mind — or, into his mind?   _Something._ Stiles is going to dig it out,” Danny replies, both calmly and nervously.  “But it’s not letting go without a fight.  So, we’re making sure Stiles gets the space he needs to do what he needs to.”

Lydia, sitting off to the side on a slope of rock, tucks her hands under her thighs and she watches it all play out, pensive but quiet.

“So... you’re guarding him?” Isaac ask’s.  “We can guard him. “It’s what pack is for.”

“We’re guarding _Stiles_ ,” Kira says, then winces when the sharp scent of pain fills her nostrils.  Knowing how much this is going to cost Stiles in the end won’t keep _her_ from breaking down.  She’ll probably cry as much as he will, if not more.  This, she knows, might truly kill her badass reputation.  Oh well.  Thank god she doesn’t live to impress these losers.

“What’s happening to him then?  Why is he hurting?”  Scott’s beginning to see there’s more happening than these two outsiders are saying and it’s freaking him out.  He can’t protect Stiles if he can’t reach him.

“Like I said,” Danny repeats quietly, wincing at Stiles’ almost inaudible grunting hiss of pain, “it’s not letting go without a fight.”

***********

Stiles can deal with the pain.  He’s done it once; he _knows_ he can do it again.  But when the hissing monstrosity lashes out for the third time, he begins to remember _why_  he didn’t want to remember the first time around — why he blocked it out for weeks until his subconscious or whatever decided he was strong enough to deal with it.

It really, _really_ fucking hurt.  At least it’s not his father this time.

But he’s halfway done already, burning out and tearing off one mystically acid-hot tendril after another, gathering up the bits of Derek — emotion and memory and personality the thing had been hiding under and feeding off of as he frees them up and practically sits on them, like a bird on a clutch of eggs, to keep them all safe and together.  Or something.  

It’s a weird analogy that somehow even Derek hears, because there’s a fondly amused bit off to the side, disconnected, that’s taking it’s sweet time re-joining the others that doesn’t recall that Derek would be oh, _oh_ so pissed off if he knew what Stiles was sacrificing and enduring just to keep Derek alive.

Stiles bites off a groan when his back splits again, this time straight over his bruised spine, and _that_ has that bit of fond amusement rushing back to the fold and now there’s enough of Derek there to realize Stiles?  Should not be doing this.

“ _Stop_ , Stiles.” That disordered jumble of Derek’s mind demands.

“Screw you, asshat.  You’re going to live,” Stiles snarls, peeling off the next tendril, frees the next section, even while the thing with teeth rears up, snaps _much_ too close and Stiles falters, just for a second, when the gash over his ear splits wide and the world outside spins queasily. 

“Stiles?  You need.... _to stop_ ,” Derek insists, because there’s a _reason_ Stiles shouldn’t be doing this.  A reason it should be _Derek_.

“You need.... to stop _distracting_ me,” Stiles counters with a growl, latches on to a sharper tendril and peels it back, pained tears gathering to join the sweat and the blood running down his face. 

The shadow hisses again, eyes done with their freakish warping, those collective pools of slick have begun a funnel-like spin cycle, and those teeth dart out and chomp down on his hand and he feels the nauseating snap and crunch of his fingers breaking all over again, twisting outward and his stomach lurches.  He grips harder, teeth bared in fury.

“Stiles!” It’s not just Derek’s voice anymore, but now Scott’s, Cora’s, even Jackson.  “Stiles, enough!  We’ll find another way, stop!!”  And they’re still talking to him directly, screaming at him, which means this is absolutely _still_ a life and death issue.

“Not fucking likely. Because if you die, Grumpywolf, so do they.  Don’t you get it?  You and your million and one insecurities might be a fantastic meal to this fucker, but you’re still the gatekeeper to your entire pack.  You’re not protecting them from this, Derek.  You, the captain of the ship, are taking them down _with you_.  You just didn’t realize it.” 

Derek sucks in a breath, frowns, shakes his mental head.

“Ye—“ Stiles’ breath catches when he feels the next tear, the one that took the longest to stitch up and chokes back a scream, takes the power of all that pain and rips the next tendril free.  But now that hollow dark is reaching up, reaching _for Stiles_.  “Not to go all Backdraft on you, dude,” he grunts out to Derek, “but if you go, I go.”

***********

“Open the circle, Lydia!” Scott demands, eyes blazing and face rapid-morphing to beta shift and back over and over the more he paces between the barriers and everything is _pain_ and panic and hurt, and the scent of Stiles’ blood is almost too much for him to handle. “Damnit Lydia, he’s _dying!_ ”  But judging by the way Lydia’s hugging herself, rocking a little, she already knows that.   _Has_ known that, if the ash barrier she’s encircled herself with says anything.

***********

Lydia _knew_ they’d break before Stiles was done.  But she understands it now; has, since she saw, even in her mind, that wall of inky terror barreling down on Stiles while he stood frozen, a would-be hero to the last, actually begging for that deputy to go - to save himself because Stiles?  

He’s the real deal.  Not the hero complex of Scott and not the reckless near-passively suicidal that Derek gets on his very worst days, either.  Stiles does it because he can _give this_  to people.  And now he’s giving Derek back to them, when no one else can.  

And it’s time they treated him like he deserves the roll he’s got.  It’s time they trusted _him_ , for a change.  Trusted _in him_.  

But it’s _hard_.   _So hard_ to hear the echo of his first death — to catch bits of the visual aspect this time on the air while he rips that greasy evil out of Derek’s mind, (impossibly) bringing Derek himself back to life, piece by piece.

Scott’s just outside her own little barrier now, thrashing against it and screaming profanities with tears in his eyes but she only has eyes for Derek, staring sightlessly up at the sky with Stiles collapsed above him and both are, so... _so still._

Lydia holds her breath, clamps it down, and refuses to scream.

***********

“It killed you,” Derek grates out, eyes wide, finally remembering.  “It’s going to kill you.”

“Then stop _arguing_ and fucking _help me,_ asshole!” Stiles wretches out, fighting back the dizziness and reaches for the last tendril.  It wraps just as tightly around his wrist as he grips it, then tightens more and begins to pull him in.  He yanks back, a little, but not nearly enough and it jerks him forward again, and Stiles feels weirdly like a fish on the hook, or something.  But comparatively, he’s not that big a fish.

Derek, watching Stiles slip his way past and down, _finally_ gets with the program, rolling to the edge of his own mind in the way that looks ridiculous on a guy his size (even mentally) but perfectly natural on the pitch black wolf that suddenly stands in Derek’s place, enormous and red-eyed and snarling with furious authority.  It darts forward, aims for that inky vine that’s chewing deep into Stiles’ arm and chomps down, rips it out, away, rips it aside and grins bloody-toothed when the shadow falls back, retreating with an agonized hiss of its own, and fades away.  The wolf opens it’s maw and roars with triumph.

***********

Scott isn’t the only one crying.  Danny’s kneeling beside them, jaw clamped shut, the Tupperware bowl of minty-smelling goop still ready and waiting.  Stiles said he’d know when.  But Derek, if it’s still him in there, has stopped breathing.  Danny thinks maybe Stiles has too.  He swallows hard, tries to believe, and waits.  Just like Stiles asked him to.

Kira’s not doing much better than Danny, but she’s got her sword in hand now, eyes flaming orange while half the betas thrash and claw against the barrier, desperate to get in.

She _knows_ Stiles’ heart stopped.  So did Derek’s.  Something else is on the air, though, and she needs to _wait_.  To stand her ground.  This is right where she needs to be.

***********

It’s been too long, Peter thinks.  He’s honed every sense he has down to boost his hearing.  He ignores the others, even while his niece weeps into his shirt, the uneven cadence of her rumbles tell him she’s saying something.  Was this how Stiles had gone out the last time, bloody and painful?  Well no. Stiles was alone the last time; not a single anyone left that he felt he could trust.  He’s got these two now though, watchful and patient and trusting in Stiles; waiting.  And so Peter’s waiting too, eyes trained on the delicate pulse point of Stiles’ throat, that’s so very, very still.

So he’s in a perfect spot to see Derek twitch.  Honed hearing catches that first thump of heartbeat, sees those blank eyes flaring red, then redder and deeper and then _just_ like his mother, so _very_ like his sister, the coat descends the bones reform and when that canine mouth opens wide and the roar comes, bellowing out a howl with force enough that the forest itself trembles, it takes everything Peter has _not_ to fall to his knees.

No, he tips his head back and answers his alpha.

They all do.

 

Even Stiles. 

***********

But for Stiles it’s short lived because he’s weak with blood loss and hurting and so, _so_ tired.  But he’s clutching Derek’s fur (holy shit, there’s a wolf in California) tight when he slowly passes out again.  But Derek’s whole, and probably grumpy, and likely still an ass, four-footed or not.  But he’s alive.  So, y’know, that’s okay.

***********

Yeah, Danny muses, staring (almost) fearlessly into Derek’s faintly red eyes while they ‘chat’.  His life will _never_ be dull again.

Not that it was _before_ now, of course.  But, well.  

He’s talking to Derek Hale.  

Except Derek Hale is currently a hundred and fifty pound wolf and the whole bizarre conversation is somehow _mental_ instead of verbal and feels both bizarre and perfectly natural, somehow.  

But... right.  So, Derek’s more or less on their side now.  Well, he’s on Stiles’ side now.  Probably.

‘I need to treat his injuries.’ Danny repeats, hovering over Stiles’ unconscious form.

‘I’ll do it.  He’s my pack,’ Derek says, teeth bared a little.  Danny’s not commenting on that when Derek’s teeth are _that_ sharp and _this_ close to Danny’s own nose.

Danny shakes his head. ‘He told me to do this.  I think you know why.’

‘I’ll do it.’

Danny’s eyes narrow. ‘You’d have me betray his trust when he’s already vulnerable?  Like you did?’

Derek snarls weakly, but backs off by a foot.  Not enough, in Danny’s opinion.

‘Do you really want him to be shamed, to have to show his scars? His weaknesses to the others?’

Derek whines.  ‘There is no shame in surviving.’

Danny might growl a little himself.  ‘You’ll need to tell him that, about _a thousand times_ , before he believes it.’

Derek whines again, backs off by another foot.

‘Really, Derek.  Keep the others well back.  You’ll get your chance to cuddle puddle him later.  Or whatever.’

‘Cuddle puddle?’  Derek’s fuzzy ears go a little flat and tilted in a way that says ‘disbelieving (insulted?) scoff’.  Danny’s pretty sure, anyway.

‘His words, not mine.’

Derek begins to pace away, back toward the pack, but pauses and looks back.  ‘He’s important to me.  To us.’

Danny grits his teeth, sends him the cold look he thinks Derek deserves.  ‘He’ll need to hear that a lot more than a thousand times, before he’ll _ever_ believe it again.’

***********

 


	13. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what the chapter title reads.

There’s a campfire crackling softly in the background, just a hair louder than the collective breaths of the multitude of bodies surrounding him, a few snoring softly.And Stiles is frickin’ _melting_.After wandering around for so many months feeling like a living ice cube, this is just plain uncomfortable.

And he has to pee.  Ugh.  

He cracks an eye open and doesn’t bother stopping the smile.  Derek, as predicted, is whole again- with hair full and skin no longer sagging or blistering with rot.  There’s not even any dark circles under his eyes.  Lucky bastard.  Not a giant wolf anymore either.  Which is a bummer, kinda.  Also in sweatpants, from somewhere.

He can feel Danny’s newfound magic just behind him and smiles a little at that, too.  Danny said he’d have his back.  The land’s magic chose well with Danny, if that’s what happened there.  He thinks he feels an 80’s montage-style research binge coming on.  Polynesia, Micronesia, Melanesia?  There’s myth and legend abound in the island chains.  Danny’s roots lie there.

Something about that thought _niggles_ on the edge of his mind... odd.

But still, he does need to pee.

Creeping out of and past a pile of werewolves is easy when you’ve got magic.  But at the moment his magic is feeling as sluggish as the rest of him (not to mention a little achey) and Stiles suspects his amulets are going to need a sizable booster after tonight.  Still, he manages anyhow, with only one wolf woken, he thinks.  

It’s Chris and Kira minding a small campfire under the canopied edge of an old oak, though he only gets a head nod of greeting until he returns from visiting a tree twenty feet back.  Kira hands him (seriously?) a wet wipe when he returns and smiles as he wipes his fingers clean.

“ _Such_ a girly girl,” he teases and she raises her book threateningly, eyes narrow.

Stiles sits to share her lopsided log-bench and tilts his head to read the title.  “Deaton will kill you if you damage that one, you know.”

She huffs, rolls her eyes and sets it aside to squint at him, head to toe.

“Quit undressing my aura with your eyes, you vixen.”

Kira manfully (girlfully?) fights off a giggle fit, snickering in silence until it passes.

“So, how’s my naked aura doing?” He asks quietly, warming the tippy-tips of his fingers while she digs a water bottle from the duffel.  (He’s pretty sure there weren’t any in there.) ‘Duffel of holding’, indeed.

“It’s a little bruised,” she admits, handing him the water, “but nothing that time won’t heal, I don’t think.” She’s quiet for a moment.  “Pretty sure your heart almost didn’t restart,” she says with a concerned mini-glare.

Stiles bows his head a little, then nods.  He feels kinda bad, oddly, that he doesn’t feel more afraid of that possibility.

“Deaton,” Chris adds, softly, “is worried that if you keep going like this, you’ll burn out.”

Stiles sighs.  He’s already considered that.  He nods again.  “I’m honestly hoping that somehow when this evil... whazit—“

“Entity,” Chris interrupts, almost kindly. “Until it has a known form, at least.”

“Entity,” Stiles agrees, “has been handled, the bulk of my magic will just dissipate back into the land.  Or something.”

“What?!”  Kira stares at him like he’s nuts.  “Why?  With that kind of power you could—“

“Do a lot of damage,” Stiles cuts in.  “Hurt a lot of people, if I’m not really, _really_ careful.”  Kira and Chris both frown inquisitively.  Stiles sighs, shrugging.  “It’s a little... erratic, when I’m especially... stressed?  Like, when I get all...” he waves a hand and looks to Kira, hoping she gets it.  Her expression goes a little soft and knowing.

“When you go cold.  Numb.”

“Yeah.  It’s like... whatever emotions I’m supposed to be having?  Get fed into the magic, instead.”

“Whoa,” Kira says softly, brows rising.  “Yeah.  So if you’re angry—“ She pauses, head tilted in thought.  “Is that the real reason behind the ‘Hale No Talking’ spell?” Someone (maybe two) from the pack pile grumbles almost silently and another sounds like they’re trying not to laugh. 

Stiles snickers at the label, but sobers, nodding.  “Planning a serious Q&A with Deaton soon, before I accidentally freeze more than just feet to the ground.  Next time could accidentally be ice cubes inside lungs. And I don’t want to hurt anyone.  Not even on accident.”

Kira nods, sympathetic, but Chris’ mental gears are clearly turning.

“Any advice?” Stiles asks him, spontaneously.

“You’d take it from me?” Chris asks, eyebrows high.

“You’ve been dealing with the weird of the world longer than I’ve been drawing breath,” Stiles says candidly.  “Yes, I’d take your input seriously.  Unless Deaton has an instruction manual for my brand of magic he’s just _failed_ to give me, nearly any serious input is welcome.”

Chris nods and stares at the fire for a second.  “Honestly?  Sounds like you need an anchor, or the magical equivalent of one, maybe.”

“Wait.  Like the wolves?”  Chris nods and Stiles joins him in flame-watching, mulling that over.  

“It’s been centuries,” Chris says after a few minutes, “since a Red Mage has existed, to the best of my knowledge.  But a known White Mage worked with the Argents maybe seventy years ago or so.  I can check our records.  Find out if she left any journals, any token items behind.”

Stiles nods, surprised.  “That’d be great, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Kira goes back to her book and it’s a comfortable silence for a bit while Stiles meditates on the ley line, magically mapping it until it feels as familiar as the one under his own campsite and uses it to (handily) refresh his amulets.  Stiles can almost feel Chris’ silent attention.

“You’re different,” Chris says at last, and to Stiles it feels a little like an accusation.  Someone in the pack pile huffs agreement. 

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at him.  “The only true constant in the universe as we know it is that _everything_ changes,” he points out after a minute.

“You used to talk a lot more,” Chris says instead.

Stiles shrugs, because that’s true enough, though there’s likely a few teachers quietly celebrating.  “For a while, I talked a lot less, too.”  Stiles sees Kira nod softly behind her book.  Someone else in the pack wakes, but silently.

Chris frowns a little at that.  “Not just that.  You have... an air about you now.  Patient, calming... older, in a way.”

Stiles nods again, but gathers his thoughts.  “It’s strange... just... _nearly_ dying?  Reminds you that you’re alive... but _actually_ dying?  Feeling it happen?  Mostly, it strips you down to the basics, kind of.  It shows you maybe, _why_  a life itself is so precious.” He shrugs.  “It’s _worth_  being patient for, when you can.  I’ve seen myself, stripped down to the raw elements — seen the heart of who I am, what kind of influence comes from that.  Speech is kind of an overrated distraction, by comparison.  And words are nearly useless when it comes to saying the important things anyway.”  Somewhere in the pack, two people shift a little.

Chris somehow manages to look respectful and sympathetic and understanding and (somewhat) clueless all at once.

“I mean... for you?  Allison.  Will there _ever_ be enough words?  To describe how much of ‘everything’ she encompasses to you?  For you?”

Chris smiles a little and shakes his head, eyes drifting over to the (partially) sleeping pack, where Allison is looking ( _worlds_ ) healthier and content, tucked between Isaac and Scott — safe and whole.  “No,” Chris concedes softly, after a second.  “There really aren’t.”

Things are quiet again for a little while until Danny sleepily sneaks away from the pack a while later (or, thinks he does, though Stiles hears a few more breathing patterns change) and joins them by the fire, his concerned eyes on Stiles and a tiny stray leaf in his hair.

“You’re up?  Figured you’d sleep for a week straight.” He murmurs, squeezing between Stiles and Kira, hands out to the low fire.

“Not even magic will relieve my bladder for me, sadly.”

Danny snorts, then chews on his lip, frowning a little.

Stiles sighs.  “Spit it out, man.  What’s up?”

“Your heart stopped.”

“You knew it could; likely would, even.”

Danny huffs.  “Actions versus words.  _Nooooo_ comparison.”

“Fair,” Stiles murmurs, leaning into him a little while Kira does the same on the other side.  “Thanks, though — _both_ of you, for having my back.”

“Anytime,” Kira says again.

“Definitely,” Danny murmurs.  “You saved my mom.  Really, anytime.  But, try not to die again, _really.”_ Stiles nods with an agreeable huff.  “Also, can I keep the rope?  That thing’s _hell-a-cool_.”

“Oh god,” Kira chuckle-moans.  “Forgot to mention, Stiles.  He might actually be better with mountain ash than you are; or at least with that rope.  He can wield that thing like a bullwhip.  It was great — chased off the lookie-lous who kept trying to invade your personal healing salve time and threatened to bind them all together with it til morning until Alpha Hale snarled at them loud enough to shake the trees.”  She’s grinning brightly at the memory, eyes a little distant.

“For real?”  Stiles smiles, half-heartedly wishing he’d been awake for that. “Sure, I guess.  I can make another, if I need to.”

“What rope?”  Chris has his ‘honestly curious’ face on.

Danny aims a questioning look at Stiles, (who shrugs a ‘meh, why not’) tugs the lump of it from his pocket and even _Stiles_  gapes, mouth open, when Danny more or less _floats_ the free end over to Chris, who _also_ gapes.

“That’s not possible,” Chris says, even as he (cautiously) pinches it near the end to get a better look.

“Clearly,” Stiles protests, with a hint of peevishness, “it is.  Or it wouldn’t be happening.  That _is_ , on the other hand, _awesome._ ”

“Mountain ash?  In the rope?”  Chris squints at it, then actually sniffs it, eyes clearing.  “Mixed with agrimony oil?  Did you distill or cleanse the ash?”

“No need.  Got the raw coal from a lightning-struck tree.  Rose-blooming northern rowan.”

Stiles nods, grinning when Chris’ eyebrows pop up a little.  This is _totally_ Stiles’ kinda shop talk.  “Had no clue how potent it might be, but the amulets I’ve made from just the downed branch have all been pretty strong.”

“Really?  Binding ash to rope’s been tried before, but the effects have never been reliable.  Lightning struck?”  Chris releases the rope, gently, like he’s waiting for it to fall.  The tip of it actually ‘sits up’ and waves a little at Chris, surprising a huffing smile out of him.  Stiles snorts and Danny smirks a little, reeling it back in, and smiles at it fondly.  Stiles decides it’s Danny’s, totally.  It just feels right.

“Yup.  Lucky find, I think.  Or, necessary find, maybe?  Seems like when I have a real need for something, or will soon, I guess, it sort of... becomes available?”  Like the whole crazy ordeal that led to Lori and Brett and then to Satomi and the shop and _Kira._   He never knew how much he’d needed her until she was there, never mind all the free ingredients.  Then there was the campsite on his ley line and the tree of genuine awesome and the list just keeps _going._   Maybe he’s always had liquid luck, to some degree.

“Huh,” Chris says, still watching the rope play through the air twisting into various shapes at Danny’s whim.  They all watch it for another minute before Danny rolls it up and offers it back, but Stiles waves it off.

“Pretty sure it’s meant to be yours, Danny.  May it keep both entertained and safe from harm.”  Stiles insists.  Danny leans into his shoulder, smiling.  Until he’s not.

“I should check your back again, I think,” he says quietly, eyes darting down to Stiles’ two still-bruised and slightly swollen fingers.

“Uh... maybe back at the jeep?” He head-nods toward the pack pile.

 “What?” Danny squints over at them, then shrugs at Stiles. “They’re asleep.”

“No they’re not,” Stiles and Kira say, at once.  

“Only two of them are asleep. I suspect Lydia and Allison.  Everyone else is awake,” Stiles tells him, then hears a few surprised breaths catch and huffs a little, rolling his eyes.  “One of my amulets is for enhanced hearing,” he tells Chris who nods, failing to hide a smirk aimed at the pack, half of who are now slowly sitting up, looking a little guilty.

“I just...” Erica’s voice is soft and uncertain. “I don’t want him to _go._ Any of them.”  None of them are talking to him again, it seems, which is all the conformation Stiles needs to know it’s safe to leave them here and head out.

Stiles sighs, chilling almost reflexively at Erica’s soft voice, but tamps it back before Danny can so much as shiver beside him.  “And I can’t stay where I don’t feel I belong.  With people I know I can’t trust,” he says just as softly, standing.  Danny and Kira stand too, all three nodding to Chris and ignoring the near-silent whines of the pack they leave behind.

***********

“It’s healing really well, actually,” Kira says as Danny slathers more salve over Stiles’ still-tender back.  “It looks, like, _days_ old already.  I’m not sure what the scarring was like before, but...”

Stiles bravely digs out his old cell and pulls the picture up, trying not to flinch at their hissed-in breaths.  He bows his head until Danny finishes and tugs his shirt down, handing the salve back so Stiles can smear a small bit into the re-healing cut just over his ear and into his fingers and knuckles.  These, like last time, are the first to heal.  

“I think the scarring will be a lot less, this time, actually,” Kira says while he packs everything back into the jeep.

“Well, not like it could’ve gotten worse,” Stiles mumbles, head low, chewing on his lip a little.  “So... none of them saw, right?”

“No, they didn’t.  I kept them back,” Danny assures him, then pauses.  “And Derek helped,” he admits.  

Kira bites her lip.  “Maybe Lydia, actually.  But that was while you were still yanking the entity out of Derek’s head.  She put up an ash circle around herself as soon as the pack started panicking about you bleeding.  But even fifteen feet away with her eyes closed, she flinched every time you did.  But she refused to take down the barriers — hers _or_ ours.  Even when they all screamed at her — _a lot._ Tougher than I’d thought she could be,” Kira says with a bit of surprise.  “I don’t think she’ll tell them anything.”

“I don’t either,” Danny mumbles.  “Jackson said she’s barely talking at all these days.  She told him she’s spent too much time talking uselessly as a person and not enough listening to her inner self.  She’s staying mum, mostly, until the crazy of the town is gone.  I think it translates to ‘listening to her banshee until the entity is gone’.”

Stiles nods and wonders if it has anything to do with their ‘not conversation’ in the library.  It kind of sounds like something she’d do to get her shit together.

“Good for her,” Stiles says softly.  

Kira nods too, then eyes Danny.  “Now, we just need to figure _you_ out.”

“Me?”  Danny frowns.  “What about me?  

“Like maybe how you can subconsciously read and find ley lines without even knowing you’re doing it?”  Kira asks, a little amused.

Danny blinks, then cringes a little, looking embarrassed.  “That really wasn’t you?” He asks Stiles hopefully.

“Nope.  All you, man.  Between that and your kickass ability with the ash rope, you’ve gotten a sip of the supernatural party punch too.  Not too surprising, considering it’s Beacon County.  So... welcome to the club!” Stiles says brightly with a gameshow host smile that Kira mirrors.

Danny huffs, eyes rolling while failing to cover his pleased grin.  “Yay?”

“It could be genetic,” Kira suggests and Stiles nods.  “Something way back in your bloodline that just activated when it got enough Beacon juice.”

Stiles nods again. “Ask your dad,” he says on a whim.

Danny raises a brow.  “My dad?  Why?”

“No idea,” Stiles shrugs.  “But he’ll have answers,” he says with certainty.

“What?  How do you know?”  Danny’s back to frowning.

“No idea, dude.  But I do.” He says with a rueful little sigh.

Danny sighs right back at him, then at Kira.  “This kinda thing is about to become my norm, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome,” Danny says quietly, and mostly sounds like he means it.

And just like that, they gain another soldier.

***********

Danny’s not expecting Jackson to practically glue himself to Danny’s side come Monday, but it’s like now that Danny had accidentally snuggled with Jackson and the rest of his pack in the dead of night on a magical ley line while semi-ferociously watching over a healing Stiles, Jackson assumes they’re all good again.   _Not so._

After fourth period when Danny’s heading to the library to meet with his magical homies, Jackson happily cruises into step with him like nothing at all changed, ready to go.  Danny stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the hall and glowers at him until Jackson’s ‘cooler-than-you’ demeanor wilts.

“No,” Danny says straight off.  “It’s not okay.  Just because someone else decided I was worthy of handling a secret you’re involved in does not make ‘ _us_ ’ okay.  I’m not okay, Jax.  _You_  chose to leave me in the dark and then to leave me behind entirely.  And worse?  You weren’t there when I needed _my best friend_.  You wouldn’t be okay either, if this situation were reversed.”

Jackson scoffs, looking (guilty) disgruntled.  “So Stilinski spills the beans on all our secrets — ones he’s not even a part of anymore and you’re automatically on his side?”  Then his mouth snaps shut, looking a little sick when he realizes what he just said and detours his words.  “Danny, look, I know I should’ve told you-“

“That’s the thing, though, Jackson,” Danny interrupts, teeth grinding a little.  “He _didn’t_ tell me about you, _or_ the others.  Even when I straight up asked him if what he knew was the reason you’d been either ditching me or avoiding me for half the summer.  He said, and believe me — I tried my damndest to wheedle it out of him, that it wasn’t his place to.  He suggested, very plainly, that I should talk to you.”

Jackson’s rejoinder dies on his lips and he shakes his head, confused.  “Then how —“

“This town is as freaky now as it’s always been. In other words, I’m not the idiot you seem to take me for.  I was fairly certain werewolves were a thing when I was nine.  Nothing since has given me reason to doubt it.  

“But after my mom got admitted to the hospital and you stopped even _pretending_ to be sorry for bailing on me?” Danny says peevishly while Jackson flinches, “I asked Stiles and Kira if the spook-factor happening lately had anything to do with people dropping all over town.  The _minute_ I told them about Mom, you know what they said?”  Danny’s practically growling in Jackson’s guilty-looking face.  Jackson shakes his head, fractionally, eyes a little wide. “Let’s go see her.”  Jackson blinks, then frowns.

“They dropped everything, _on the spot_ , to help a woman they’ve _never even met_.”

Jackson bows his head, finally looking as ashamed as Danny is angry.  Not that it does much good _now_ , but it’s about damned time.

“And then?” Danny continues furiously, “Stiles saved her life.  Literally.  She’d have been dead by dinner time, otherwise.  You know, _my mom_... the woman who’s cooked for you, put bandaids on your bloody knees, done laundry for you, hugged you after a few nightmares.  So you and me?  We’re _not_ okay again yet.  And it’s got _next to nothing_  to do with Stiles or Kira.”

Danny steps around him and storms away, his skin tingling faintly with unspent anger.  He’s got two genuine friends bracketing him a moment later, silent and steady and patient.

“Jackson,” he mutters, as an explanation, when he’s finally cooled a little.  Stiles nods with a wince of sympathy and Kira smirks with a twinkle in her eye.

“Kitsunes are tricksters, y’know,” she tells him brightly.  “I could totally infest his precious snobby car with fleas.”  

And then they spend the rest of lunch cheering Danny up with prank ideas that Stiles swears he’ll never do and that Kira swears she’ll never get caught doing — like good friends should.

***********

“I’m afraid there is no ‘handbook’ for being a mage, unfortunately.”  

Deaton’s laughing at him a little on the inside, Stiles knows. (Mostly knows because’s Deaton’s eyebrows are definitely laughing on the outside.)  But with Deaton’s propensity to be mysteriously educational (generally) only when life gets extra weird, it seemed fair to ask.  “It sounds as though an anchor could be beneficial though.  But then, werewolves live their lives in a semi-dual state of both humanity and instinctual animal.  An anchor is mostly a focus point that both sides understand and respect; or something so deeply grounding to the human portion, the wolf has to bow to it.

“But for casters... magic for most isn’t generally something that’s considered a separate thing.  There is no division between man and magic.  The magic, to most, as far as I know, is merely an extension of their consciousness.  Like a sword to a veteran warrior or a paintbrush to a painter.”  Deaton looks a little perplexed by the need to explain something so basic.  “But, to be fair, little is known about true mages.  It’s possible there _is_ a separate quality to the magic itself.”

Stiles chews on his lip, thinking.  “It feels separate, but not all the time?  Like, when I’m mixing potions or making amulets, it’s simple.  I just relax and feel like I’m being guided, usually by my own instincts, to the obvious ingredients or the more natural way of mixing or preparing it than a previous potion recipe might have it written.  I don’t always know _why_ I’m adding something new to a standard recipe, at first, but by the time I’m done adding it, it’s obvious.  Everything from the raw properties to their preparation is just amazingly clear.  _That_  feels like the magical extension of me.  

“But when I’m doing something more active?  Or when I get stressed by, well... usually the pack, but... yeah.  Then it feels like the extension has an extension of it’s own.  Something that’s almost a separate entity.”

Deaton leans back against the counter, thinking and watching as Stiles mixes up a new triple batch of ‘peaceful calm’, hands moving smoothly as surely.  The flame is a soothing purple, and he’s using a glass mortar and pestle today he’d picked up at a yard sale on a whim.

“Is there a huge difference between the different type of mages?” Stiles asks after a moment.  “I know I’m a Red Mage, but Chris said he knew of a white one that the Argents have worked with in the past?”  Deaton tilts his head a little in thought.

“Elemental mages.  Red often has their power seated in the fire element, such as you began with your ‘spark’.  White would be air, blue for water, green for earth, though it’s rumored that there have been both brown and gray for earth as well.  Beyond where their base power is seated, I’m not certain there’s a difference in the kinds of magics they wield.  But... does the base of your magic feel different when you’re doing more active magic?”

Stiles thinks on it while his potion steeps.  “Maybe sometimes?  Like, with Scott in the parking lot at school?  As soon as I went cold, it felt a little disconnected from me?”  Stiles stills while he thinks, then nods a little to himself.  “When I go cold?  It’s like the cold is masking whatever emotion is just too much for me to handle feeling, right then.  Seeing him up close here for the first time in months, with the branch?  It hurt, a lot.  But not nearly as much once the cold washed through me, as you probably saw.  The pack and my father are the only ones who inspire ‘the chill’ to swell that way.”  Deaton nods a little.

“But that day in the parking lot at school was different than even that day with the branch.  It felt like the magic separated from me, like it became a suit of armor that was just on the surface of my body and just barely under my skin, but not ‘part’ of my body.  Then he had the audacity to look betrayed and I was angry, but that suit of armor part of me?  Was beyond furious.  It felt like that part would’ve stripped him of any memory of me entirely, whether it hurt him or not — and that’s not something I would do, barring extreme circumstances.”  Stiles douses his flame and just breathes for a minute. 

“I’m not sure that separate part would’ve cared if Scott survived the process,” Stiles mumbles, ashamed.  “And that’s _really_  not something I would do.  No matter how angry I am.”  He pours the potion into three bottles carefully, then begins to clean up, his hands on autopilot.

Deaton, in the end, is just as baffled as Stiles as to how Stiles’ magic behaves or why.  He does recommend counseling, to Stiles’ unhappy surprise.  

“Isn’t that why I come to you with all this?” Stiles asks him, eyebrow quirked up teasingly to cover his twinge of grumpiness.  He’s had more than his share of shrinks, thank you very much.

Deaton huffs, looking both surprised and a little pleased, but shakes his head.  “I may be well practiced at dispensing advice, but of the emotional well-being that drives you and your magic?  I know little about what types of psychological trauma you may be experiencing.  I’ve never known anyone who’s been in your position before, nor been through something quite so.... raw, as you have.”

Stiles nods, a little morosely.  He really isn’t keen on the idea of sharing his little slice of hell with someone new.  No one deserves to have to deal with his issues except him — except maybe Deaton, because he offered.  Stiles shrugs, feeling a little resigned.  

“Could my anchor... would it be better if it was someone I already have a bond with?”

Deaton frowns.  “What kind of bond?”

Stiles sighs, mentally cringing.  “Like... one of the pack bonds?”  

Deaton stills a little, looking, again, surprised and maybe sad?  “Are you thinking of joining the Ito pack, then?” He asks quietly.

“What?  Oh, uh...no.  As much as I like them, I’m not exactly the passive zen type and doubt I could be, even to reign in my sometimes overly-temperate magic, but...”

“Rejoining the Hale pack?” Deaton asks, eyebrows peaking up.  “There would, I think, need to be a certain measure of trust to rejoin them... unless you mean your more familial bond with Scott?  I think that unwise, considering how your magic, or subconscious, behaves around him.

Stiles winces a little.  Because Deaton doesn’t know, somehow.  Also, _really_?  He sighs yet again.

“I still have a pack bond with them... all of them.  Even Cora, somehow, which is weird.  It just...” he shrugs, “doesn’t seem to go both ways,” he confesses softly, feeling the remembered (still achingly there) lonely hollow and still feeling weirdly _guilty_ for having it at all when he might not have the right to it because he’s not their pack.

But Deaton’s not looking judgmental; no, he looks _devistated_ and easily as horrified as Kira had looked, shaking his head.  

“You should be dead,” he says simply.  “Losing the pack the way you did — you should’ve been _dead_ or _insane_ a week after they’d exiled you, without something to bind your psyche together.”  

Ie: Stiles should be no more mentally fit than Peter used to be.  Or maybe Cora has the secret to sanity; maybe the difference lies in whether or not you have a known pack still living.  Deaton looks as heartbroken for Stiles as Danny and Kira both had and maybe a little angry for him, too.  “How—“

Stiles shrugs, fists clenching and trying not to freeze solid with the wash of pain that sweeps in.  “‘Sheer stubborn determination?’  I think the bond is how I found Peter, maybe.  I know it’s how I knew Derek was... I think I’ve always felt them, a little.  I think it’s why I’m always cold?  So it’s muted, or—“ 

Stiles swallows hard, wincing.  “And I didn’t— didn’t always want to... live through it,” he says quietly.  “But when I realized I didn’t _have_ to stay... at eighteen I could _go —_ it got easier, knowing I had an out.  Got easier to just think ‘one more day.’  I could make it for just one more day and the day after that I’d say the same... and then I _was_ eighteen and away from my father and breathing easier and then magic?  But _a lot_ of magic - not just vague compulsions and blind instinct.  It was a lot to take in.  A lot to distract myself with, I guess.

“But I wasn’t always in a good place, mentally.  Maybe still not, sometimes; definitely not always emotionally.  And you saw how far off I was physically...”

“I thought that was the entity,” Deaton murmurs sadly, shaking his head and looking a little gutted.  “I am so sorry, Stiles,” he says softly.  “I’d never even thought to check for any sort of a psychic or a pack bond.  I thought you were merely feeling the effects of the entity more than they were, if not feeling it for them entirely.”

“Well, when I was with them? I think I was feeling it for them, but... maybe had them to balance it out?  A little?  But... later, I was maybe just feeling the loss.”  Stiles stands straight, abruptly, mentally shaking the subject off (or fakes it til he makes it, at least).  It’s too nice a day to be mired in _this_ much moody talk.  “But, it’s in the past, mostly, except the erratic magic thing.  It’s not getting harder with time, at least.  Harder with proximity to the pack, maybe, sometimes.  But...”

“And here I asked you to spend even more time—“ Deaton winces a little.

“It’s fine, Doc,” Stiles cuts in.  Guilt is _not_ a good look on Deaton.  “ _Really._  I don’t think you’re wrong about them needing a boost, or about the good they’ll do with it.  Though, if they could all just, like... go to a movie theater and see whatever’s now playing?  The less talking they do around me, the better, really.” 

Stiles is trying to be kind here, even if he’s a tiny smidge irked that Deaton never deliberately invaded his privacy and checked for a pack bond he’d had no reason to suspect Stiles had.  And yeah.  (Mental eye roll.)   _That_ thought has his shoulders relaxing along with any lingering sting.

“It’s not a matter of fault, Doc.  Not even a little.  Definitely no more yours than mine.  But, if you think of anything useful, anchor-wise, let me know?”  

Deaton nods, still looking a uncharacteristically morose.  

“Please don’t go feeling bad that you never deliberately invaded my privacy to look for a bond you had no reason to think I’d have,” Stiles insists, repeating his own thoughts.  What else is there to say?

Deaton blinks at that, then huffs out a small half-smile, nods, and walks him out.

***********

Stiles feels almost physically ill at the thought of going to the bar Wednesday night and calls in sick for the first time ever, and instead tails the pack to the theater to see the latest superhero movie.  He wonders a little how Deaton managed to swing a pack night suggestion with everything that’s going on.  Will any of them suspect?  None of them seem to, he discovers, although Derek keeps subtly squinting into the shadows, for some reason... and they all seem a little unnerved, altogether.  But the night ends quietly.

***********

While Stiles was busy trying to ignore the pack in the theater, Danny was learning that he’s apparently descended from a sort of god or guardian spirit of forests and plants and wild animals and so Thursday finds the usual trio at their usual table in the library, _not_ studying for the chem test later in the day.

“Dad says no one even remembers which deity or spirit it is, only that every few generations, someone has a weird affinity for plants and animals.  Like, apparently Dad’s grandmother could just walk into the ocean with a net, ask the fish to come and they just _did._ Everyone ate nothing but fish for the whole week.”

“Well _that’s_ handy,” Stiles remarks.  “If you like fish, that is.”  But he’s smiling a little, because the week hasn’t been half bad, spook-factor-wise.  Quiet enough, at least, that they could honestly focus on studying for their first chem test during their lunch study session.  Not that they _are_ , really, Stiles notes.  But they _could._

“Yes to the fish,” Kira nods, looking hungry — then apparently remembers she has a lunch to eat and pulls it out, rolling her eyes at herself.  “Though,” she says a moment later around a mouthful of sandwich, “the animal thing explains the whole ‘talking in your head to a big bad wolf’ thing you had going on with Derek last weekend.”

“The ‘talking-to-the-what-now?’” Stiles asks, eyebrows inching up.

“Yeah,” Danny confirms, looking oddly uncomfortable, “there was that.  When you both first woke up, he was still a giant-ass wolf,” he says.  “And tried to insist it was his place to take care of you and not mine.  But, y’know, I could hear him in my head?  I guess?”

“Well you weren’t barking or growling at each other,” Kira confirms, grinning.  “I’d have teased you about it by now if you had.”

“Whoa,” Stiles says, impressed.  And... huh.  Stiles feels— _No._

 Jealous?  No.  Nuh-uh.  Just... No, no, _noooo._   Stiles buckles _that_ particular emotion down and shoves it to the waaay back of his mind.No way in hell is he rekindling _that_  crush, regardless of how mild.“Maybe that explains why you’re so drawn to Ethan,” he suggests innocently, to distract himself.

Danny scowls at him.  “Humans are animals too, y’know,” he reminds him.  

“Uh huh,” Stiles agrees amiably.  “I’m sure whatever deity or spirit you’re descended from took that into account.”  Kira snickers and Danny rolls his eyes at the pair of them.

“Please... Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be all over him, given half a chance,” Danny tells him sassily.  

Stiles’ stomach drops along with his expression.  Does Danny not know?  Does he not remember _the club_?  Did Ethan not remind him?  Well, _fuck_.  Okay, so... Stiles _could_ just not say anything, but that has potential to bite him in the ass sooooo hard down the line.  

“Uhhh, Danny?” Stiles queries, sounding awkwardly guilty, even to his own ears.

Danny manages to keep a (innocently-confused) straight face for all of ten seconds before he cracks and starts snickering, then outright chuckling at Stiles’ relieved/annoyed/ _you-are-a-terrible-friend_  expression.

“Oh my god, you _ass!!_ ” Stiles exclaims quietly, wilting a little with relief.  “Geez, don’t scare me like that!”

“Wait, _what_?” Kira asks, eyes swiveling from Stiles to Danny and back.  “I’m totally missing something.  You and Ethan?” She whispers, eyes wide and... interested? 

Why the _hell_ , Stiles has to wonder, do so many straight girls get off on the concept of guy on guy?  Well, okay, no.  Likely the same reason so many straight guys get off on the concept of girl on girl.  God knows he still finds the thoughts of both pretty fascinating.

“Well,” Stiles begins uncomfortably, trying (failing) to see an easy way out of this conversation, “Just... once?”

Danny eyes him shrewdly, lips pursing while his eyebrows furrow.  “I know that look, Stiles.  That’s the look of someone who’s leaving... something........out.”  Then Danny’s own imagination kicks in and holy hell.  

Stiles _didn’t_?  

Unless he _did?_.

Then Stiles, honest to god, _blushes_.

“Oh.   _My.  GOD._ ”  Danny’s eyes are round.  “BOTH?” He breathes out, a tiny bit jealous and a whole lot— “ _AT ONCE?!_ ”

“TELL US _EVERYTHING_ ,” Kira demands in a fierce whisper, staring intently while her chair (and her along with it) practically slides itself directly to his side, three inches away.“Leave _nothing_ out.Bare it _all_ \- every single juicy, tasty, firm, luscious double-on _detail.”_

“Uhhhh, look at the time!” Stiles practically yelps, earning him a sour look from the librarian.  “Yup.  Chem starts in.... aw, geez.  Yeah, i, uhhhh, need to hit the can-before-class-see-ya-both-later!” Stiles goes unseen, _the cheater_ (even he knows this is totally cheating), leaving his two besties behind.

***********

Kira blinks at the spot Stiles had just been in, then at Danny, who’s doing the same.

“Did your imagination just kick into overdrive?  Because I think the mental imagery for me just hit Mach seven and broke my brain a little,” Kira tells him.

“Yeeeeeah.  Ethan wouldn’t say anything beyond ‘it was memorable’,” Danny mumbles, still caught in the mental loop of a double dose of phenomenally hot twin.  “ _So_ unfair,” he declares, slumping a little.

“Some guys get all the luck,” Kira agrees with a sigh, staring dreamily into space.

Neither gets much studying of any kind done after that.

***********

The rest of the day Stiles spends avoiding his best friends, to his own chagrin.  If they were totally different friends, would they still be over-curious little perverts?  Stiles seems to have a type, so... yeah, probably.  

Well, whatever.  Fond memory of that night aside, he honestly doesn’t want to dwell on it, really.  His head wasn’t in a great place just then, (not that that’s changed much with his occasional ‘itch-needs-scratching’ ways,) though he honestly has no regrets.  Not about the twins, anyhow.  But it’s in the past.  And really, is he going to be the kiss and tell guy?  Very few people actually respect the kiss and tell guy.

He’s still debating how to tell them exactly that while they’re all three stretching out in the grass last period, pointedly _not_ talking about anything personal (sexy or otherwise) with so many Hale pack, yet again, blatantly listening in.  

Stiles finds himself distracted anyhow, in part by the fact that the twins aren’t here when he _knows_ they were both in fourth hour, but also, he has a gentle but uncomfortable pull towards the woods that’s honestly unnerving.  Danny and Kira seem to pick up on it, too.

“What’s the what?” Kira asks softly, eyes serious.  “You look worried, or something.”

Danny’s frowning at Stiles too, but nods agreement.  “You okay man?”

Stiles shrugs, then shakes his head.  “Something’s off...” he mumbles, eyes distant but still scanning over the tree line.  “Dunno what, though.”

“Alright!” Coach hollers, striding up with his own actual running shoes on for once.  “We’re taking this cross country out to the country!  Or, the woods, at least!  The path is marked with blue flags,” he continues, holding up a bright blue vinyl flag for demonstration. “Stay on the course, halfway point is a yellow flag, water bottles available, get a move-on! Go, go, go!”  He blasts his whistle long and hard.

To Stiles it sounds more like a warning siren.

***********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I need y’alls help.
> 
> PRANK IDEAS.
> 
> I’ve put my Gabriel/Loki/Trickster hat on and come up with a few, but I neeeeed more. For reals, if you’ve got a ridiculous non-lethal idea that Kira (and maybe Stiles and Danny) can pull off on the Hale Pack (though not Cora, plz. It’s not her fault her brother’s a moron), I’m all ears. :D


	14. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo many revelations. 
> 
> The soft and gentle kind.
> 
> Like safes. Or pianos. Or anvils.

*************

The class never makes it to the halfway point and their promised water because a mere ten minutes onto the course, they find a short lane of trees strung out with bodies. Stiles’ eyes automatically zero in on the obvious: bound tight to the trunks with heavy rope.  Head wounds of one kind or another.  Skulls cracked, maybe?  A thin bit of wire or cord in a choke position around their necks.  Throats slit, obscenely wide.

“Jesus,” Coach breathes out stunned, for once, nearly silent.

He’s not alone.  The pack look horrified and both Kira and Danny don’t look any better, to say nothing of the other students.Stiles is just trying to keep his lunch down and trying not to soak up any more details of the three bodies he can’t help but see.Mid twenties on the first, college age on the third... neither familiar.  No — scratch that.The college-ager used to live down the street from his father’s house.  And the girl on the second tree has Econ with he and Kira — Coach’s class.

“God,” Kira chokes out softly.“Is that Amelia?” 

Stiles nods, as speechless as Coach, who also seems to be stuck staring at Amelia.  This is a whole new brand of ‘frozen in horror’, Stiles’ brain spits out uselessly.But... it’s not the entity.  It’s something dark and something evil, but it’s _not_ the entity.

“Coach?” Someone asks softly.

Finstock finally whips around like he’s just now remembering he’s the adult officially in charge of all these kids, looking a little green.“What the hell are you all doing?” He shouts, shaky hands pulling out his cell phone.“Everyone get back!Better yet, everyone, just— back to the school!Retrace the route, or something!And stay together!Go!”

They go, of course.  Some pale and fast and some sobbing and slow, but none of them alone.  The four Hale pack are all giving each other highly freaked-out _knowing_ looks that has Stiles’ eyes narrowing suspiciously.None of them look quite surprised enough.Surprised, yes, but not _that_ surprised.  He catches Kira and Danny’s eyes after a moment and sees that they’ve both noticed it too.What the hell does the pack know that Stiles and company don’t?

Stiles foretells some stealthy unseen stalking time in his near future.

*************

Stiles wheedles his way to the front of the police questioning line just by virtue of flagging Parrish over the minute he arrives, giving his statement, and promising to call him later with a significant look.  Parrish nods agreeably but looks a little odd about it.

By now the pack are all looking extra, _extra_ cagey, barring Lydia, who’s been waiting on the sidelines and b-lines for Parrish while Stiles goes unseen to get a few answers.Frustratingly, the second he vanishes from sight, the pack who _are_  present clam up entirely, even to each other while they wait to give their own statements. 

Not a big deal, annoyance factor aside.The loft might be the next best spot to stalk up some answers anyhow.

*************

Maybe, Stiles thinks a little randomly, he should stealth-stalk people more often.Because sometimes it pays off.

The loft furniture is just... in _pieces_.He’s clearly walking in on the end of the fight that the Hales very obviously lost because Cora’s on the floor by the kitchen, fear barely hidden under a heavy dose of pissed off and she’s struggling in vain to buck off the large, bald, steroid-advertisement of an alpha that’s pinned her down simply by half-kneeling on her back.

Peter is face-down and motionless, either dead or unconscious at the base of the stairs but it’s tough to say when he’s only half visible behind the (Okay, _really?_ ) smarmy-looking blind man with a cane and a villain _smirk_ , droning on (complete with a villain _accent_ ) to Derek who’s only half-conscious while being both propped up and still pinned down with a huge fucking metal pipe driven right through his chest and wedged an inch into the floor.Holding the pipe is an exotic-looking, snarling alpha just above him with her toe claws (OMG, _ewww_ ) dug into Derek’s lower spine.

And the twins, Stiles sees with a little (extra) shock, are hovering nervously in the corner and look as ill about the happenings here as Stiles himself feels.But they’re clearly a part of this, somehow.

What.The ever-loving.  _FUCK???_

Stiles doesn’t stay shocked for long, though.Oh no. Because that’s overridden by the kind of anger that borders on _nuclear-grade destructive fury._

When Stiles’ frosty armor of magic seals around him this time, he _welcomes_ it.He knocks the twins out swiftly, ringing them with a pinch of mountain ash he might actually conjure out of thin air and a half-second later, has _thrown_ the bald dickhead pinning Cora down straight at the pedicure-needing bitch holding Derek in place, rocketing them both across the room and then  _through_ the large loft windows with a rain of glass to land in a battered heap on the balcony. 

With one hand, he tosses another pinch of ash in their direction, willing it to contain them while his free hand yanks the pipe out of Derek with a wet squelching noise (that Derek can _whine_ grumpily tells Stiles he’ll likely be fine) as Stiles storms past him and drives it straight through the chest of the blind (ridiculously-accented) villain and then halfway through the concrete wall next to the front door for good measure.

That, at least, takes the edge off his anger.A little.

Cora’s scrambling toward Derek to help him stand, maybe, but Derek’s legs don’t seem to be working and now he’s drawing in short little wet-sounding gasps of pain and they’re both wide-eyed (Derek woozily, though) at their sudden change of fortune, eyes darting around the room, seeking answers and finding none.

Stiles eases the last of his overflowing anger by simply bending the pipe up and around like a bendy straw and uses another pinch of ash along the bloody length of it to keep the alpha (holy shit scary-gnarly with eyes freaky bright and getting brighter even _behind_ dark shades) out of the way while he checks up on the Hales.At least none of the others had been here.Stiles is honestly not sure where the destruction would have ended if these fucks had come after his whole pack.

And... it’s probably not a great idea to call them that, even just in his head, but... well, fuck it.He’ll worry about it later.

Peter’s not only alive but awake, Stiles sees, although the deep (yikes) claw marks have all but shredded his mid to upper spine, leaving him grounded even worse than Derek is until he heals.Stiles finally lets himself be seen again and rolls Peter gently onto his side to check for other injuries.Peter stares up at Stiles for a long second, opens and shuts his mouth wordlessly, then grins a ridiculous, bloody-toothed grin at him and gives him a seriously inappropriate and enthusiastic _thumbs up._

Stiles blinks.Then he huffs with an internal eye roll and tugs the Hale No amulet off, laying it on the edge of the staircase beside him.

“Nice timing,” Peter says with a breathless wince.

“Thank the pack lacrossers.  They were acting seriously cagey at school after we came across those bodies.I just came to find out why,” Stiles explains, voice mostly hollow and toneless and terse with the angry chill of magic still mentally riding shotgun. 

Alpha-inflicted injuries, he knows, take longer to heal and Peter’s still in serious, obvious pain.Stiles is sure the salve in his bag would help— 

Aaaand okay, so... the duffel now teleports. Yay? 

Stiles pulls the salve out and is busy smearing it into the last of Peter’s back wounds when he hears Cora’s sharp inhale.

 _“Stiles??”_ She sounds surprised.Delayed reaction maybe?  Probably shock.Stiles is pretty sure _he’s_ maybe in shock, so... yeah, she’s totally justified, he thinks.

He nods a greeting over his shoulder and rolls Peter back down, (face up so he’ll breathe easier) who sighs gratefully and waves a mostly-limp hand toward Derek and Cora.

Derek next, then.He’s still only half-conscious, but blinks up at Stiles from where his head’s propped on Cora’s shin with horror.“You need to get out— they’ll _kill_ you.   _Go!!_ ”Which means he’s either deluded or in shock.Maybe both?Likely both.Well, like Cora, Stiles supposes, Derek’s earned it.

“They can’t kill me, Derek.Just... take it easy, ‘kay?”Stiles smears the last of the salve into ( _uuugh_ , broken pokey ribs are gross and he can see the floor right _through_ him, double- _uuugh_ ) Derek’s chest, then his back and spine when Cora rolls him carefully onto his side, but Stiles gathers a little glob still stuck to the lid and smudges it over the tiny cut on Cora’s brow, watching as the wound closes almost instantly. 

She blinks at him with a small surprised smile — then wrinkles her nose. “Did it have to be mint?I’ll be smelling it for _days_ ,” she complains, but the look in her eyes is all relief and gratitude.

Stiles huffs but twitches her a half smile, finally thawing a bit.Then he stands to focus on the problem at hand. 

The alpha still pinned to the wall is snarling wetly, (Stiles may have (totally on purpose) nicked a lung) and glasses gone he’s easily the _freakiest_  wolf Stiles can fathom, like some demonic BtVS-verse vampire reject who looks a few full moons shy of _any_ kind of sanity.The two on the balcony look half incensed and half terrified.The twins?They just look a wee bit scared but... sad, mostly.Neither tries to defend themselves or explain how they ended up with the far more sinister trio.Wise, likely, because Stiles? He’s still mostly riding the angry chill with both Peter and Derek making little pained noises behind him.

Stiles turns back to Peter, since Peter has the un-Derek-like habit of giving it to him straight.  (Albeit, straight with snark, generally.)Also, Peter’s fully conscious.“What’s up with these guys, then?”

The salve seems to work even better on wolves than it does on mages, because Peter gingerly pulls himself up a little to rest his head and shoulders against the lowest rungs of the spiral stairs.

“Alpha Pack,” he says, shifting with discomfort.“They like to collect powerful alphas who catch their eye.Derek was an obvious choice, his territory on a ley line nexus like Beacon Hills.That he can now go full wolf?That was, according to Deucalion,” Peter head nods to the not-so-blind freak ineffectually red-eye-glaring at them all, “a happy bonus.He could’ve absorbed Derek’s abilities and power, had Derek joined.They’re the most dangerous wolves in the world, by popular and overall terrified vote.”

Stiles frowns, baffled.  “Why the hell would they think he’d ever have joined them?” He asks.Because this is _Derek_.Even on his worst day, he’d never abandon his pack for these psycho losers.

Peter snorts.  “They were threatening to come after you, if he didn’t,” Peter sighs with a somewhat exasperated and disappointed look at his alpha.“Though some of us _tried_ to explain that even _they_ weren’t that stupid.Word has officially spread of the Red Mage in Beacon Hills.Only idiots would try their hand at besting you.”

Stiles frowns at them all for a moment, then pulls out his cell while he almost idly draws the mountain ash ring encircling the two on the balcony forward, yanking them along with it to park them both beside the twins where Stiles can keep an easy eye on all five of them.

“Who are you calling?” Derek grits out from the floor from where he’s finally glowering (surprise, surprise) wide-eyed and awake.

“Chris,” Stiles sighs out while unlocking his phone.“I can’t think of a single wolf who’s equipped to handle the twisted kind of power radiating off these guys, which means none of _you_ can kill them.But Chris can.”Derek glares at the floor.“Unless you’ve got a better idea?” Stiles asks, tapping his phone into his other hand.Derek, after a moment, relaxes and shakes his head.

“Please,” Aiden breathes out, looking miserable and still huddled against his equally miserable-looking brother.“We didn’t have a lot of choice.We’ve never wanted to be a part of them,” he chokes out.And his heartbeat, Stiles can hear, is steady and honest-sounding.Which is something alphas can do, Stiles recalls, but...

“Explain,” Stiles demands quietly, eyes going hazy as he (easily, for once) checks over their auras.

 _Holy shit_.   _So_ much pain.Like — like their entire lives have been one agony after another, lessened only in the last few years, though not by much.  And the last few years have added on a seriously fucked power that’s just — it’s as wrong as the wall wolf’s power, corrupted and sick.  But that’s just the power.  Under all that is just them, and ‘just them’ honestly isn’t any worse than Peter.

“Our old pack?The Vault pack of Texas?They weren’t like these guys,” Aiden says with an almost respectful head-nod toward the Hales.“We were the runts — the weak ones.And in a pack like ours was, only the strong survived past sixteen.”

“Deucalion helped us; showed us how to be stronger, how to defend ourselves.He gave us a plan to escape so we’d never be at their mercy again,” Ethan adds quietly.“But it included killing most of our pack and taking the alpha power.And turns out these guys,” he glances nervously at Deucalion and away, “aren’t much better than our old pack was.”

Stiles sighs a little.He believes it— believes them.  Because auras can’t lie.

“Like you gained nothing?” The toe claw lady sneers at them.“We gave you freedom.We gave you _power_.”

“You gave us a different cage with a different view, Kali.Nothing more.It’s not like we didn’t figure out that you three planned to take our power along with our lives when you’d either grown bored of us or we outlived our usefulness.  We just weren’t stupid enough to let on and give you reason to do it sooner rather than later,” Ethan sneers back, still looking terrified — like two layers of mountain ash and five feet between them is still a million miles and a million magical barriers too close.

Stiles sighs again, then looks to Peter and lifts an inquiring eyebrow.“Thoughts?”

Peter frowns at him, eyes darting to Derek and back.Ah.Yeah, this would be Derek’s call, mostly.Except that it’s also Stiles’.This is just as much his territory as Derek’s, these days.His to protect, at least, especially when others can’t.

“Oh, I’m asking all three of you, really.” (Mostly true-ish.All their input is welcome.)“But you’re the old man among us,” he tells Peter.  “What do you know?” 

Stiles stares patiently at Peter in silence until he relents, shifting to a better position, almost sitting up completely now.

“I’ve only ever heard of the Vaults.Texas is one of the few places I’ve actually never been, largely to avoid _ever_ being on their radar for _any_ reason.Between the rumored inbreeding and the certifiable insanity, they had a reputation for some... highly deranged practices.” 

Stiles eyes the twins again, sees them both looking somewhat green.Ethan’s jaw is trembling a little, like he’s remembering the worst kind of nightmare.Aiden’s nearly digging his own claws into his shins, expression set and scared and resigned.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at Derek and Cora next.Cora shrugs.“I’ve been in South America for most of the last six years.I’ve never even heard of them.”

Derek’s got his grumpy thinking face on, but Stiles thinks Derek’s thoughts are mirroring his own on this score.“They can’t stay in Hale territory,” he says at last.“I won’t share our family home with outside alphas.”

“And if they’re _not_ alphas?” Stiles asks easily.His magic’s been itching to yank that twisted power out of them since he glimpsed their auras, like it knows their rank is not a healthy one for them to hold, even if it _is_ divided between them.

Derek shrugs, but narrows his eyes at Stiles.“And you can do something about that?”

Stiles lifts a brow at him briefly, then lets his expression fall flat and his eyes flare warm with magic. (Though, admittedly, mostly for the effect.) “Their power’s base is like a sickness — probably born of evil and fifty shades of cray-cray.I can siphon it out.”

Derek’s eyes widen.“How?”

Stiles lets his eyes dim, shrugging a shoulder. “The heart of my magic, I think, is to protect and defend and heal.They’ll never heal with that poison clogging up their minds.Just because it’s not affecting them yet doesn’t mean it won’t, eventually.”

Derek purses his lips, stands (careful not to wince) and walks past a still wheezily-snarling Deucalion, unconcerned, to loom over the twins who are still huddling close together.“You’re willing to lose the power?”

“God yes,” Aiden blurts, looking stupidly hopeful at Stiles past Derek’s shoulder.Ethan nods beside him with a look of pure relief, like he’s just been given a second chance at life, Miracle on 34th Street style.In a way, Stiles supposes, he has.He and Aiden both. 

Two minutes later, Stiles has drained all the evil mojo out of the twins and pressed it down into the floor and then further, into the land and further still, into the ley lines where it dissipates, cleansed by the purity of the raw mystic energy.But it leaves him a little light-headed, like that particular punch was maybe too much big magic in too short a time? He’s still got no idea how he’d found both the speed and strength to knock them all on their collective scary asses.

The twins blink electric blue eyes at each other with matching relieved smiles, (even as omegas) and Stiles calls back their ash barrier with a little ‘c’mere’ crook of a finger to bring it weaving and dancing across the room where it darts neatly into the same little baggie of ash he’s been hauling around in his pocket and chuckles a little (internally) at the high-eyebrowed expressions everyone’s now sporting. Even the wheezing, snarling wall ornament looks surprised.

Stiles twitches a shrug at Cora, who’s closest and giving him the ‘how d’fuck you do dat’ look but also an impressed half-smile along with it. 

“Mountain ash is pretty much my bitch these days,” he confesses.She snorts, then gives him an honest smile.He’d smile back, but the rest of the pack choose _that_ moment to come tumble-rushing through the door, finally having caught the scent of danger undoubtably still wafting on the air.

Scott, of course, zeroes in on Stiles with a determined stride and an odd expression, but is stopped short by Peter (finally standing), who just shakes his head at him.Scott lowers his own head a little and pouts, (what is he, _five?_ ) then slumps his way back over to Isaac’s side, who’s watching the twins shuffle out the door (and edging away from the still-imprisoned alphas snarling moodily) warily, much like Erica, Boyd, and Jackson all are.

Allison’s already on the phone with Chris and everyone except Lydia just gapes a little at the overall destruction and their bloodstained alpha and pack mates. Stiles, still almost unconsciously radiating power, stands alone in the middle of it all.

But he’s watching Lydia, who’s openly frowning around the room, looking uneasy, then looking downright unsettled, then looking almost panicked.“Lyds?” Stiles asks, concerned.

Her eyes shoot to his a mere second before a foreign blast of magical _something_ knocks them all off their feet, Stiles included, and has glass raining down from the skylight (Stiles throws a blanket of shielding over the pack at large) while the world goes blindingly dark and silent for a heartbeat.When Stiles blinks again, the remaining members of the Alpha Pack are gone, nothing left of their passing but an empty ash barrier on the floor and a twisted, bloody pipe still stuck in the wall.

*************

“What the ever-loving—“ Jackson mutters, climbing to his feet.

“What did you do?” Scott demands peevishly, half-glaring at Stiles while the rest of the pack glares (in various states of disbelief and annoyance) at Scott himself.

“ _That_  is not any magic I know of,” Stiles bites out.  “If it were, I’d have disapparated _you_ by now, believe me.”  Scott flinches under his conflicted-looking expression, then looks away, face going a little blank.

“Definitely not you,” Lydia agrees, approaching Stiles.“I didn’t feel it til I got in here.But... the ‘not-feeling’?It’s the same as those bodies in the woods.The bodies and the alphas are connected, somehow.”

Stiles grinds his teeth, remembering the original reason he (thankfully) even showed up today.

“And just how many ritual-style deaths have their been, before those three today?” He asks, trying not to ‘smack the messenger’.The messenger, in this case, being the entire pack.

“Three,” Lydia says at once.“Found only yesterday, so...”

Stiles nods shortly.“Police looking into it?”

“Parrish,” she confirms with a quick nod of her own, “was going to call you this weekend, if he hadn’t made any headway.” Stiles nods again, shoulder’s loosening. 

Good.But why wait?Stiles can hit the station on his way to Deaton’s.  This might explain Parrish’s slightly ‘off’ behavior while they were at the school, at least.  He seems like the type to not want to involve a high-schooler, magic or not, unless he needs to.

“It’s not safe,” Scott argues mulishly (and maybe desperately?) from across the room.“You shouldn’t—“ Scott’s words dry up when Stiles narrows his flaming eyes at him.A second later, Scott’s plastered flat to the ceiling next to the magically-restored skylight while Stiles just crosses his arms and cocks a brow at him.

“Well, yeah.  I can totally see how you’re a real threat, way up there.I feel terribly unsafe,” Stiles says quiet and dangerous.Peter’s smirk is positively delighted.Actually, most of the pack have a similar overall look, Allison and Isaac (to a lesser degree) included. 

“The fact that you still seem to think I’m weak, Scott?  _That’s_  the reason I’d rather have nothing to do with you anymore.I can’t trust you— because I know for a fact that I can’t trust anyone who has so little faith in _me._ ”

That said, Stiles goes unseen again, snags his teleporting duffel and his amulet up before (somehow) sending a vision to Lydia of her screaming up at Scott to break the spell/hex/whatever Stiles had done and let him down.He also sends ( _so cool_ ) a vision of a clock running fast til it hits ten pm.He knows she’s seen it when her lips twitch up and she nods fractionally.

Cora snarls up at Scott.“See what you did?Jesus, Scott!He’ll never want to be friends with _any_ of us as long as you keep up this bullshit hero complex, asshole.”

“None of you gets it!” Scott shouts, trying in vain to unstick himself.He’s welcome to keep trying, as far as Stiles is concerned.  Stiles basically reversed and strengthened gravity up there.Worse case scenario is Scott just tires himself out with the effort.

Stiles (with only the smidgiest-smidge of guilt) slows to a stop halfway out the door to see how this plays out.Because maybe, just maybe...Stiles still has a few allies left here after all.  But it sucks, painfully so, that Scott clearly isn’t one of them. 

“I can’t let anything happen to him again!” Scott grinds out, frustrated.“We decided— Derek chased him off and Stiles died!Now he’s got this freaky power he doesn’t seem to be able to control and that freaky-as-hell nightmare thing maybe gunning for him and you’re all just willing to use him as a shield?It’s bullshit!  _We_ should be shielding _him!_ ”

“Scott,” Peter says almost pityingly, “his magic is the only shield he needs.He’s probably the most powerful caster on the continent, if not the _entire northern hemisphere_.”

Stiles gapes a little.For real?Well, he thinks, eyeing his magical duffel and the twisty pipe in the wall, that maybe shouldn’t surprise him.But it does. 

So does the odd note of happy pride in Peter’s voice.If they all live through the... whatever, until the entity is gone, Stiles is _totally_  making Peter a shirt with the dorkiest thumbs up picture he can find.Maybe morph Peter’s photo onto a Dogma Buddy Christ.

Scott, obviously, will be getting no buddy t-shirt of _any_ kind.

“Only because we let him die!” Scott rebuts.“Derek made us turn our backs on him and Stiles died!Now he’s got this freaky power thing going on and I really don’t think he’s as safe from himself as you all think he is.I would know!I’ve known him since second grade!None of you _gets_ it!”

Derek’s glaring tightly up at Scott, lips thinning until he finally speaks.“And just who’s idea was it to oust him in the first place, _Scott?_ ”Scott blinks, mouth snapping closed with a tight glare.

Stiles can actually _feel_ the blood draining from his face with realization, because _what?_

“Well... you backed it up!” Scott defends, like he hadn’t just tried to throw Derek _alone_ under the bus.“Then you wouldn’t let us change our minds!I had no choice!” Scott yells back, but... his heartbeat _ticked_.And it’s not just Stiles who’d heard it.

Allison’s frowning at Isaac, who’s staring, looking almost hurt, up at Scott.Everyone else just looks confused and maybe shocked.

“I can’t force a thought into your head, Scott,” Derek bites out while Peter’s much softer voice carries even louder, somehow.

“And you, among all of us wolves, Scott, have _always_ had a choice.”

Everyone’s gazes ping-pong between Scott, who’s looking panicked, and Peter, who’s uncharacteristically stoic as he stares up at Scott. 

“You were _my_  beta, not Derek’s.And you had the makings of an alpha enough to defy even _me_  at my strongest and craziest.You’ve never _had_  to obey anything Derek’s ordered.Not once, and you know it.The only reason you never changed your mind, Scott, was because you chose _not_  to,” Peter snaps out.

Stiles stumbles woozily for a second, then lets that blissful arctic freeze swirl in again and soothe him.He steps forward to hear the rest, unknowing and uncaring of how his eyes, even unseen, have gone bright and vivid with angry power.

“But—“ Scott starts, then switches again, back to glaring at Derek, like this is all somehow still _his_ doing.“You said he’d be safer!The further away from us he was, the safer he’d be!Well, he wasn’t!”

“And I’ve admitted, Scott, unlike you, that I was wrong,” Derek says with quiet certainty.Stiles blinks, yet again, in surprise.For Derek? That’s kinda... huge.Like the state of Texas-sized huge.  Possibly Alaska.

“Only because he’s stronger now,” Scott spits back with some weird mix of childish petulance, protectiveness and what sounds like... jealousy?  Maybe?  “Which he shouldn’t be! He _wouldn’t_ be!Not if you’d just—“

“Bullshit, Scott,” Cora snarls, her eyes glowing with anger.“I saw his eyes flare up _before_ his birthday.   _Days_  before his birthday.He didn’t need to die to be powerful; he only had to have a shitty pack who couldn’t see his worth and a sad excuse for a former best friend who’d gladly leave him behind to spend more time with his lovers.”

“What would you know?You weren’t even here!” Scott yells back, but doesn’t deny it, either.

A slightly unhinged part of Stiles’ mind is cackling at this whole hollered conversation with Scott stuck to the ceiling like a grouchy spit-wad.  But he’s sure it’s because even under his frozen armor, under the flayed-raw-ness of _not_ -funny-ness, Stiles is having a harder and harder time just breathing and focusing on what’s even being said with these secrets and lies landing all around him like anvils, slowly burying him alive.

Until _Lydia_ , somehow, leans against him, though her eyes are still trained upward with an almost achingly sad expression.Against his better judgement, maybe, Stiles leans back into her, too and his mind slows and settles just a little.  Just enough.

“Except she’s right,” Allison says softly.“I can’t even count the number of times you just turned down calls from him when we were just wasting our days away doing nothing.”She looks conflictedly sympathetic, but she lifts her chin.“You pushed him away, Scott, long before he was kicked out.”

“What? No!” Scott protests, but Stiles thinks everyone present can hear _that_ lie.“He—“ Scott swallows, biting his lip.“He wasn’t strong enough.He’d have gotten hurt, gotten _killed_ if we let him stay.”

“Except he _was_ strong enough, Scott,” Peter points out.“Or he’d never have become a mage in the first place.That’s how it works.He endured great suffering,” Peter states, holding up a finger, “and shown strength in the face of evil,” Peter adds another finger, “and _that_ killed him, though he had the strength to survive.”Peter’s third finger says it all.“A threefold mage.”

And it all began with Scott insisting Stiles be banished?  Jesus.  Stiles might well have been doomed to run this whole shit-show course from the beginning.

Doomed... by _Scott_.

 _The fucker_. 

But most of Stiles’ anger trickles away because Stiles knows Scott meant well, sort of.But jesus, something is really wrong with Scott if he truly believes what he’s preaching.And yet, his aura is clear.This is all Scott.Nothing’s influencing him but him and his own misguided sensibilities.

“This thing might still kill him,” Scott bites out, sounding frustrated.“I need to keep him safe.”

“Trying to keep him safe, Scott?That’s most of what actually got him into this mess.” Jackson ( _for reals?_ ) argues calmly, “Seems to me that maybe it’s _you_ he needs protecting from.”

“You’ve always hated him!You don’t get an opinion on this!” Scott spits back weakly.

“I wanted him out, yeah, but not — jesus, not at the cost of everything he’s gone through.”  Jackson looks pained at the very thought.“I just wanted him to quit hitting on Lydia.Soon as I figured out he was mostly just using his infatuation as a kind of beard, or something, I eased off.” Jackson winces.  “Then, admittedly, it was just a childish habit.Don’t think for a second I wouldn’t go back and do things differently if I’d known what he’d be going through.” 

Jackson’s voice and heart are steady, which floors Stiles, more than a little.Lydia’s got a small, proud smile on when she reaches over to squeeze Jackson’s hand.

“But—“ Scott’s looking more than a little foolish, if not outright deluded.Maybe just self-deluded.He’s running out of things and people to blame and he knows it.

“He was in Gerard’s basement with us,” Erica says softly, and half of the collective pack sucks in shocked breaths. Stiles, still unseen, flinches.But it’s Scott she’s talking to, Boyd standing firm beside her, nodding with his jaw clenched tight.“While you were busy making plans with the enemy, Scott?  Stiles was busy trying to free us, even with a four inch gash in his side trickling out blood like a leaky faucet he’d gotten when Gerard threw him down the basement stairs.He _still_ tried to help us.   _Us —_ the _runaways_.He may have been more fragile, purely human?But he’s _never_ been weak.”

Allison’s gone pale, head shaking.“I-I didn’t know,” she whispers, eyes swinging from Erica and Boyd to Derek and back.“I swear I didn’t know.”

Boyd sends her a calming, honest look.“We knew that the minute you showed up with Gerard’s head.I think Stiles may have been happier for it than we were.That sick old geezer beat him up pretty bad.”

Derek’s eyes are furiously red.“Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me?” He grates out, eyes darting between Erica and Boyd.

Boyd winces, but Erica bravely lifts her chin.“Because it was obvious he didn’t want us to.And because we didn’t want to hand you another reason to keep listening to Scott every time he said ‘No, he doesn’t need to be here for this meeting, or this training, or this... whatever.”Erica sighs.“Because even then, _you_ saw him as weak.We didn’t want to arm you with another reason to make him go — not when he still felt like pack to us.”  Boyd nods firmly in agreement.

“And to me,” Peter agrees quietly.Lydia nods too.

“He’s always felt like pack to me,” Cora says, sounding like it’s maybe not the first time she’s said it.Stiles glares at the floor and tries not to wonder if he didn’t somehow accidentally magically bond them all to him or some shit.

He sort of wants to cry (already is, maybe), even as mentally numb as he feels. (Maybe not nearly numb enough.) 

This is insane.Seriously. 

Scott’s mouth opens and shuts for a second, face white, while Stiles again stares brokenly up at him before realizing Scott can see him, fuck!  ( _How,_  even?)But whatever — Stiles shakes his head, wills the tears away, turns then leaves all the revelations behind him.

*************

Stiles, somehow, finds himself in his jeep and his jeep in front of the Ito pack house, and Kira’s soon tripping out onto the porch with a surprised, happy grin until she gets a good look at him.Stiles relents, once he’s wrapped in a tiny-(huge and life-saving and he’s never needed it more)Kira hug, to finally let himself be lured inside.He’s never needed company so much in his life; not to mention, maybe, advice.Or possibly an alpha memory drain.He thinks Kira’d mentioned that was possible, once.

The house is as simplistic on the inside as the outside, but warmer and welcoming.It all but screams safety and comfort. (In a zen-like, peaceful-screaming sort of way.)Stiles loves it almost as much as the garden.

While Satomi herself cooks dinner in the next room over, Stiles and Kira muddle their way through homework shoulder to shoulder in silence (pausing briefly when Stiles takes them unseen while he haltingly chokes out the Scott-banisher-asshat spying unseen conversation as best he can, then talks Kira off the ‘I’m gonna kill that little fucker’ ledge).

They’re finishing up with the last of their homework just as Brett, finally back from Davenport pre-season lacrosse practice, all but collapses on top of Stiles and Kira both, whining (while squashing them) that he’s too sore to move. (The liar.) Until, that is, a flying sister lands (knees first) on his chest which squeezes a wheeze out of all three of them, grinning down at them cheekily while she raises victory arms and proclaims herself queen of the mountain. 

Stiles whimsically (somehow) drops a crown of bright pink and green daisies (from somewhere) onto her head and they all snicker at her half giggle-frown when it slips down over her eyes, effectively blinding her so Brett can counter-attack, tickle style.And for once, screw his icy armor.Innocent, ridiculous laughter is a great mental and soul-soothing balm.

When Noshiko finally makes it home from her half-shift at the tea shop, everyone troops into the kitchen for dinner.Dinner talk here is pack-less (mostly), serious-less, casual talk about everyone’s day.Despite the incident in the woods and Stiles’ own slightly off-center mood, no one brings either up; everyone seems to have something positive to report, at least for dinner, and Stiles thinks it’s a great family meal practice.He knows his mom would’ve approved.

“And what about you, Stiles?” Mr. Yukimura asks.“Had any good fortune today?”

Stiles stills, wondering if anything at the loft really qualifies as ‘good fortune’.

“Uh... IIIIIII’m pretty sure I aced the chem test?” He tries and there’s approving nods all around, though Satomi herself lifts an eyebrow at him, almost inviting him to try again.  Stiles drops his eyes and chomps into another cajun sausage instead.

“Anything else?” Satomi asks him (pointedly, when he says nothing more) from the head of the table.Everyone’s movements (barring Kira, mostly) slow a little, eyes pinging around with curiosity but too respectful of both alpha and dinner guest alike to ask outright.

“Well...” _Deeeep_ breath. “I saved the Hale trio from the Alpha pack and de-powered the alpha twins so the Vault Pack’s crazy alpha power wouldn’t eventually drive them both nuts?”

“...”

“......”

Stiles thinks there might be a single cricket chirping in the basement somewhere.

“.........” 

No, wait...

There’s two, actually, if he focuses enough.Sounds like one’s in a box in the corner.

“You what?” Kira blurts, eyes wide and mouth gaping a little, beside him.  Since she hasn’t quite finished that last bite of Cajun rice, _ew._

“See seafood much?” He fake-whispers to her with a nervous smirk.Her jaw snaps up with a pop.But everyone’s _still_  staring at him.

“Isn’t it someone else’s turn?” He asks a little desperately, eying Satomi. 

But Satomi just smiles wide and then wider and then laughs, eyes crinkling before respectfully bowing her head to him a little. “Well done, young mage, to have captured the Alpha pack.”

He sighs, winces, and shrugs a little.“Oh, uh... thanks?Although, um... something magicked the evil trio away before Chris Argent got there. Like a flash-bang and suddenly creepy-blind, needs a pedicure, and sneering steroid guy were just... gone.”

Everyone’s back to wide-eyed staring.  Again.

“That’s... unfortunate,” Mr. Yukimura tries, looking sad, (maybe for Stiles?) for some reason.Kira’s mother looks equally unhappy.Stiles doesn’t wonder too hard if they’re all a part of the ‘most dangerous werewolves by popular and terrified vote’ crowd. He’s fairly certain they are.

“Not to mention super-weird,” Stiles agrees.“If this wasn’t Beacon County, I’d totally suspect _aliens_.”

That gets snickers out of the younger generation, at least, and has the older generation relaxing again.Still, Satomi gives him a calm smile that seems to promise a good conversation with their evening tea.Stiles nods back to her and looks forward to it.

*************

“Start from the beginning,” Satomi instructs after Deaton arrives.  Brett and Lori have both been excused for the night, while Kira just pointedly drops onto a floor cushion beside Stiles with a stubborn look that’s practically triple-dog-daring anyone to try to make her leave.  No one bothers, of course.

Stiles does start from the beginning, with the woods, leaving very little out until he stutter-stops when he gets to the Scott-bad-friend-banisher part.But he’s hit all the ritual-style killing and Alpha pack and bizarre spell highlights, and now Deaton looks disturbed — has, actually, since Stiles reported what Lydia’d had to say.

“And she believes they’re connected?” Deaton asks for the second time. 

“I... can call her and triple-check?” Stiles offers.

Deaton nods idly, thoughts already spinning his attention away while Satomi nods pointedly.“If she’s free to join us, we’d welcome her input.”

Lydia _is_ free, of course, and Stiles suspects almost immediately that she’d been waiting for just this call.“Should I let Scott down before I come?” She asks, sounding annoyed.  “He’s _pouting_.”

“Whatever, so long as he stays away from me,” Stiles sighs, now wondering if maybe that’s why his magic is so volatile around Scott... it knew before Stiles did.Or, Stiles’ subconscious did.

Lydia hums her assent then a muffled conversation says her finger’s over the speaker.She sounds slightly uncertain when her voice floats through again.“Derek would like to join me,” she says plainly.Stiles lifts his brows to Satomi who nods genially.

“So long as his less-behaved betas remain behind, he is welcome.”

Another muffled few words from Lydia’s phone that Satomi clearly hears has her nodding with finality.“Of course, Alpha Hale.We’ll see you soon.” 

Stiles and Lydia huff almost in unison.“Alphas,” Stiles mutters teasingly, then dodges a wet tea leaf thrown at his head that first has Kira snickering, then dodging one too.

Stiles rattles off the address and directions for the tea shop and Satomi leads them out into the quiet night and down the long driveway to meet them.

*************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chill out, pack haters. Remember, this is new Stiles. He’s too smart to forget, even if he can forgive (to a degree).
> 
> Also? _Scott._ Need I say more?
> 
>  
> 
> For now, just breeeeeeathe.
> 
> Ps: I’m having a hella time writing this next chapter to my satisfaction, so bear with me for a few days. I’m sure to nail it down by next week. :)


	15. We should all be running scared.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things considered, running away scared might be the smartest thing they can do.
> 
>  
> 
> *** Minor note: in this wacky little ‘verse, Deaton doesn’t have a sister. Ie: Morell is nothing but a guidance counselor and possible therapist at Eichen House. (Dunno yet, could still happen) ***

*************

Stiles is honestly happy about this meeting of the minds, especially with the _far_ overdue discussions on the docket, but he’s also kind of nervous, too.  This would be the first major interaction between the pack he only _thought_  he had, and the pack who would likely adopt him in a heartbeat if they had their way.  A meeting of people who (sort of) knew him before, and the people who definitely (mostly) know him now.  If he’s honest with himself, this whole thing is fucking with his head at the moment, what with all the events and discoveries of _just today_  that he’s _still_ emotionally half-buried under.  It has him on edge, a little.

But as Stiles had silently (and somewhat nervously) predicted, Lydia and her inner magic geek are _enthralled_ with the shop — like ‘kid at Disneyland’ enthralled.  Stiles wonders if he himself had that same awed, childlike expression on when he first arrived here.  He can, at a (very minor) stretch, imagine it.

“You _absolutely_ had that look,” Kira confirms with a knowing grin as she settles against him where he’s leaning against the old wooden checkout counter.  “No, you’re not thinking out loud again,” she says, before he can ask.  “But I know you; your first night here?  Like Harry’s first visit to Diagon Alley.”

“Best night of my life, I think,” he says quietly, bumping her gently with an elbow.  “I am so lucky to have you.”  

She beams up at him.  “Damn right you are.” She winks (exaggeratedly bad) at him and he snorts.  “Admit it, hot stuff,” she murmurs with weirdly sultry look, scootching closer to rub her shoulder against him.  “Our first night?   _Mmmmm_ ,” she groans, shivering, “was like......  _magic.”_

Stiles bites his cheek, _hard_. “You are a terrible person,” he huffs, fighting a laugh.

“Really?” She huffs back with a coy look from under her lashes.  “Was that first night not memorable for you? I mean, c’mon! We were _at it_ for three... whole.......  _hours!”_

“Oh my god,” he mutters from behind his double face-palm, shoulders trembling. “Please stop before your mother hears?” He begs quietly, trying to stifle an honest-to-god _giggle._

“Too late!” Noshiko calls out (sounding half exasperated and half reluctantly amused) from the other side of the store where she and Satomi are maneuvering chairs around the heavy shelves and into the back ‘library’ room.

That’s really all it takes. Stiles’ shoulders are shaking with (stress-relieving) snorts of laughter and he’s brushing tears out of his eyes by the time Lydia’s done being ‘wowed’ and makes her way over to greet them both.  It takes Kira a second longer for her own giggles to die away, but die they do when Lydia approaches, her stride deliberate and assured even if her smile is a little wobbly and uncertain.

“If this is where you spent your summer,” Lydia declares boldly, ripping off the proverbial bandaid, “I’m officially _envious_.” It shouldn’t surprise Stiles, actually. Lydia’s never been one to beat _too_ far around the bush when it’s important enough.  Which, granted, she could’ve done _months_ ago, but...  

A part of him wants to deliberately freeze the remembered lonely ache away, but this is _Lydia_.  And despite his sometimes reservations, he _knows_ Lydia, just as she knows the raw, bared bones of him.  And, he absolutely,  _without a doubt_  knows that she’s the _only_  reason he didn’t _completely_ lose his shit earlier at the loft and possibly caused the kind of damage Stiles himself might not have been able to live with.  

Stiles pulls her into a silent hug and ignores the slight shuddering hitch in her shoulders as she squeezes him back with an air of relief.

Beside Stiles, Kira wilts just a little, though she’s trying to hide it behind a slightly awkward-looking, would-be brave smile.  And just... _no._   That ain’t gonna cut it.  

“Lydia Martin,” Stiles starts, pulling away, “allow me to introduce you to my badass bestie, Kira Yukimura.  Kira?  Meet the sometimes goddess, full-time banshee, Lydia Martin.”

Kira tries a real smile again that mostly just looks stilted and a little unhappy.

Lydia shakes her head with a huff (at Stiles? At herself?), straightening up. 

“ _No._  A goddess would’ve been a better friend,” she says quietly.  Then to Kira: “As _you_ already know, obviously.” 

Then she huffs to Stiles. “I should’ve kicked his sorry ass _months_ ago — kicked my own, too, when I’d finally crawled out of my own head long enough to realize what had actually happened — what _I didn’t stop_  from happening.  I _absolutely_ should have kicked his twice, _at least_ , before you glued him to the ceiling.”  Lydia’s lips twitch.  “I left him there, by the way, when he started griping that it should be _him_ coming tonight and _not_  me.”

Stiles rolls his eyes to cover his wince. _Jesus._  Yeah, that... sounds like Scott — oblivious to a fault, because Stiles isn’t sure what he’d have done if Scott _had_  shown up here tonight.  Probably snapped his fingers and dropped his sorry ass in the lake on the other end of the county, somehow.  Or gone full Gabriel/Trickster/Loki and turned him into Isaac’s car, Knight Rider style.  He’s sure he could work a spell for that, given enough time.  Kira would totally help, too.

“Wait — you glued someone to the _ceiling_?!”  Kira’s eyes are sparkling with interest now as in a way that _demands_ details. 

Had he not told her that part?   _Oops._

“He didn’t _tell_ you?” Lydia gushes, biting her cheek to keep from laughing outright then shoots Stiles an exasperated look.

“Other things going on!” Stiles defends with emphasis, “What with major bad magics stealing evil alphas away and all that!”

Lydia waves that off with her well-manicured fingertips, like it’s a pesky fly.  

“Scott,” Lydia informs Kira with a smirk, her own eyes sparkling.  “He kept _whining_ about needing the bathroom before I left, then had the audacity to insist that he _needed_ to be here.”  Lydia rolls her eyes with another huff.  “Presumably to protect Stiles from— well, who the hell even _knows_ anymore.

“But!  Kitsunes are tricksters, right?” Lydia asks, all mischief in her smile.  “Because if _anyone_ on the planet needs a few hundred hardcore pranks to put him _well_ into his place?  It’s one _Scott McCall._ And I don’t know about you, but I’ve got some ideas.”  Lydia smoothly hooks her arm through Kira’s and now Kira’s practically _skipping_ at the inevitable future mischief.  And now off they go, strolling toward the back room together, exchanging ideas and leaving Stiles staring after them, slightly appalled with himself.  And maybe a little horrified for the world at large.

“Dear god, what have I _done?_ ” He breathes out with a quiet whine.

“If either of them kills Scott,” Derek says quietly from a little behind him, “Melissa... well, she’ll probably just make you resurrect him...  _after_ one of her marathon lectures.”

Derek’s words are friendly but his eyes are a little cautious (despite the earlier save), waiting for either Stiles’ judgement or approval.  Stiles tenses up some and cools a little on the inside, but... remembers. 

Remembers Derek, feral and vicious and snarling and _rotting_ and _dying_ but still pressing his face into Stiles’ hand with a whimper and eyes that pleaded for help.  And he remembers Derek’s earlier admission (though not yet to Stiles personally) to his _entire pack_ that he’d actually been _wrong_.  And _meant it._  It’s the combination of both that has Stiles’ shoulders loosening and his insides thawing again.

“Probably, yeah,” he agrees with a slight ‘still off balance’ nod.  Because this is weird, right?  Conversing with Derek when neither of them is growling for some reason?  Or bleeding?

Also, Melissa?  Screw the lecture (he’s pretty much immune to them now anyhow), she’d totally revoke all ‘mom hug’ privileges until Stiles somehow brought Scott back.  And Stiles sort of _needs_ those occasional hugs like _air._  

“You all...” Stiles waves toward Derek’s shirt and chest and back and the lack of a visible _tunnel_ still there, “healed up alright?”

Derek nods and shifts his eyes away, looking almost contrite while tucking his hands into his ( _always_ with the skinny jeans! Seriously.   _Always_.) formfitting jeans, looking less grouchy alpha and more model on a runway.  Which is _grossly_  unfair.  Maybe Stiles can hex him with... pimples.  Or something.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” Derek admits, looking a little chagrined.  “And _thank you_. For taking care of Cora and Peter.”

Stiles blinks.  Derek just _thanked him._   _Derek._  Thanked _Stiles._  This... has been the straaaaangest day.

Stiles shrug-nods a little awkwardly.  “Well, try as I might, I can’t just... _not_ care,” Stiles admits.  “And you know what you’d all be without Peter’s wiseass sass?   _Bored._   And Cora seems pretty cool when she’s not pulling her Grumpy Cat impersonation; I couldn’t just, y’know... leave you guys hangin’.”  Though Derek, Stiles realizes abruptly, has a _much_ better Grumpy Cat impersonation.

Probbbbbably best not to mention that though.   _Ever_.

But the comment surprises a real smile out of Derek (adorable bunny teeth and all) and a still-raw bit of Stiles’ former (not quite former) crush peeks out to sigh dramatically before hiding away again.  Stiles mentally shakes himself.  And pinches.  And then _bitchslaps_  for good measure because this is definitely _not_ the time.  Well, at this point ‘ever’ will definitely not be the time, but—

“Alpha Hale,” Satomi intones from behind them both, but relaxes when she sees Stiles and Derek both at ease (mostly) with each other.  “I’m glad you could join us. There are troubling events lately that concern both our packs. And our towns.”

“Alpha Ito, thank you for allowing me to visit.  Please, call me Derek.” He pauses, looking a little rueful.  “The title’s unnecessary to anyone who once wiped my nose as a little kid.”  Derek’s eyes are warm and honest and still a little wary, but Satomi smiles back.

“Then I am just Satomi,” she offers, then _smirks_. “And I’m certain when you were a babe I wiped up things beyond _just_ your _nose_.”  Stiles snickers under his breath until Derek half-glares at him, flushing.  But Derek’s _also_ trying not to smile, so...

Stiles just snickers harder and hurries away after the girls to give the alphas the polite illusion of privacy.  

He finds Deaton first, though, peeking around a rack of tea cups and tea pots with a little smile of his own as he watches the two alphas reacquaint themselves.  Stiles huffs at him, an eyebrow lifted high in faux-judgement and Deaton just shrugs at him, unrepentant.

“You ever get the feeling, Doc,” Stiles asks after a moment, hearing Kira and Lydia cackling in the back room while also peeking out at the alphas renewing their friendship, “that we’re all just pawns of fate?”

“Only every day, Stiles,” Deaton murmurs, still smiling a little as he spies on the alphas.  “Only every single day.”  

Weirdly, that alone gives Stiles a bolstered feeling of hope.

*************

“So Deucalion, Ennis and Kali have vanished... have the twins left the area then?”  It’s Noshiko, as the Ito Pack emissary, who begins the meeting once they’re all crammed onto the collective love seats and chairs they’d snagged from around the shop. 

It’s cracking Stiles up a little inside that Derek had gotten stuck with one of the dainty (and wobbly) tea chairs, with Derek too respectful of Satomi to ask someone to swap them out.  It’s just harmless and ridiculous enough for Stiles to suspect Kira involvement, but her face is completely stoic — which is how he _knows_  it was her.  He’ll high-five her later.

“I doubt it,” Stiles says with a head shake (back to reality), since it seems to be him Noshiko was addressing.  “If they’d thought the Argents were coming to round up the other three, they’d have no reason to bail, if they’ve already settled here. And they seem to be, as best I can tell.”

“We’ll ask Danny tomorrow,” Kira promises with a shoulder nudge to Stiles.  “He and Ethan have been getting close the last few weeks.”  Stiles nods agreement.

“Is it possible that the twins themselves were also taken?  Has anyone spoken to them?” Mr. Yukimura asks, eyes shifting from Stiles to Kira.

”After the alphas vanished, I could hear the twins in the parking lot,” Derek supplies.

Satomi nods, then turns to Lydia next, lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. “And you have new information on the recent murders?”

Lydia nods. “Yesterday, as it sometimes happens, I found myself walking aimlessly in a completely unfamiliar park in Beacon Trails with no idea how I’d gotten there, though I apparently drove.  There were three bodies strapped to three trees, all dead with multiple wounds to the neck and head.”

“Three-fold sacrifice style?” Stiles asks, recalling Amelia.  “Skull cracked in, strangled or garroted, and throat slit?” 

Lydia nods grimly while Deaton shifts in his seat, looking uneasy.

“Deputy Parrish has been looking into it, trying to find a connection between them, but the investigation’s still new, so no physical clues yet, that I know of. Then today...” she looks to Stiles and Kira, who fill in the blanks, having been there for that awful discovery.

“Six total, all murdered ritual style,” Stiles finishes quietly.

“And you felt _none_ of these deaths?” Deaton asks Lydia with a frown.  

She frowns back, looking annoyed and distraught.  “No, _none_.  Which— I mean, I _should_ have.  I might not be a fully-trained banshee, but I’ve been working hard lately on my intuitive side.  I’ve picked up a crazy amount of things these last few weeks.  So yesterday at the park, what I _did_ feel when I’d gotten close enough was some kind of a spell.”

”Could you sense, at all, what the spell may have been for?” Noshiko asks.

Lydia shakes her head, looking unhappy.  “I don’t know much about spells either way, though.”

“Could you tell how, like... maybe how _new_  the spell was?” Stiles asks.

”I can’t be certain” Lydia replies, head shaking again.  “But today in the woods after the police had left, that spell felt... like... more potent, maybe?  Newer?” Lydia’s looking to Deaton, who has his ‘anything’s possible’ face on, which isn’t all that helpful.  “Both scenes felt like the same _kind_  of spell, though,” she says bluntly.  “ _Exact_ same; like... rotten vegetation, if that had a feeling to it.”

“But at the loft?  If those three alphas were meant to die in the loft, _that_ I would have felt.  I’d have felt a scream building up, even if I didn’t know them. But as soon as I walked in, I felt another spell building instead, just not the same kind,” she says, looking unsettled.  “But all three spells had the same, like... texture?  Flavor?  The same caster, I’m sure of it.”

”What would a caster want with insane, rogue alphas, though?” Stiles wonders.

”Nothing good,” Noshiko replies.  “With the kind of power they had, sacrificing them, if that is the caster’s goal, would generate a dangerous and impressive amount of energy.”

”What if it was a rescue?” Satomi asks.  “Did the alpha pack have an emmisary that we know of?”

”Not to my knowlege,” Deaton replies, his brows still knit together while he frowns at the floor.  “Those three all killed their entire packs to build up the power they had, emmisaries included,” he adds quietly.

Derek shifts uncomfortably in his seat with his jaw set, looking ill at the very idea.  Satomi doesn’t look much better.  Stiles has seen the effects of betas on their alphas.  How anyone could do that to their own... Stiles shudders a little.

”Could the sacrifices have something to do with the entity? I mean, maybe the caster is attempting to kill it?” Kira suggests.

Stiles shrugs, but doubts it.  The thought doesn’t settle in his brain as ‘possibly true.’  “I don’t think so,” he murmurs and sees Lydia, too, shaking her head.

”Are we even sure the entity isn’t responsible for the murders?” Derek asks.  “Maybe they’re one in the same — entity and caster.”

“No— the caster isn’t the entity or visa-versa,” Stiles says firmly.  Half the group frown at him and he shrugs a little helplessly.  “It could be a deliberate difference in the way they died to throw us off, but the bodies on trees haven’t been drained, right?  They were bloating.  The entity is still sucking them dry, like mummies, right?  

“And I _know_ this thing, sort of.  I know when it hunts, if I’m awake too; I know when it eats.  And I know if those flag markers were set today, as I’m sure they were, Coach or whoever it was that set them would’ve noticed three bodies along the trail.  The bodies had to have been posed between flag-setting time and our actual class-time.  And right now the entity is still bound by night.  I think we need to talk to Parrish and maybe see the autopsy report.  The timing could mean something.”  Satomi and Deaton both nod agreement.

“Wait. What about Danny’s mom?” Kira asks, confused. “ _That_ was in the day.”

“Physically infected with that evil... worm-thing, yeah,” Stiles says.  “But it infected her the night before, and I think it could only infect her even _that_ way was because she already had one foot in the grave. I mean, she didn’t _have_ another day left.  She was too weak to survive without help.  No way someone else _that_ bad off can murder and pose six people.”

“Agreed,” Deaton says, looking more disturbed than Stiles has ever seen him.  

“So his mother died?” Noshiko asks, confused.

Stiles blinks at her, then lifts an eyebrow at Kira, who looks a little guilty.  

“Nooo?  Sorry Mom,” she says with a wince.  “Tranq-ed, kidnapped, chaos, etc.  Lots happening.  I forgot, sorry.”  She cringe-smiles at her mother who just sighs patiently and waves a hand for them to continue.  

A minute later _everyone’s_  well informed and staring at Stiles.  

 _Again_.

“Sunlight in a bottle?” Deaton exclaims, his expression definitely — _something?_   Stiles can’t really tell, actually. But definitely something dramatic.

“Well, more or less?” Stiles shrugs.  “Glass Christmas ornaments break easier, as a rule.  Also? Fifty cents a dozen at the flea market.”

“That shouldn’t even be possible,” Deaton murmurs, squinting at Stiles.

Stiles squints right back, exasperated, then recalls Peter’s words from earlier on the subject of Stiles’ magical strength.  “Peter... thinks maybe I’m mage-worthy on three levels,” he says slowly.  “Would _that_ make it possible?”

Derek shift-wobbles on his tiny chair, suddenly looking a little guilty and very discomfited.  Lydia reaches out to squeeze his arm, giving him reassuring ‘yes he was there but no, he’s not that mad even though he should be’ eyes until Derek relaxes again.

Deaton’s just frowning now.  “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Lydia clarifies, eyeing Deaton and ticking the points off her fingers like Peter had, “a mage who first endured great suffering while showing immeasurable courage in the face of evil, and then being killed by that evil, but surviving.”

Deaton tilts his head like he’s unraveling the puzzle of Lydia’s words before he stills, eyes widening on Stiles.  “A three-fold Red Mage,” he breathes.

Stiles shrugs again, feeling awkward.  “So... sunlight in bottles and ornaments works well for me?”

Everyone but Kira and Lydia are giving Stiles wide, impressed eyes, but it’s also Kira and Lydia who are smirking (a little proudly) on Stiles’ behalf.  (Like they had anything to do with it? Really?)

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to shift uncomfortably until Mr. Yukimura coughs politely and _pointedly_ , shaking everyone’s attention free. 

Stiles is tempted to send him a flower basket as a thank you. Or maybe a sushi basket, if he can find one; Kira swears he’s the sushi king.

“So,” Stiles concludes, “we’re dealing with two different evils.  Which is two too many, in my opinion. So... where are we on the entity I.D., then?” Stiles asks, eying Deaton and Satomi.  “Anything in the books pop out as familiar-sounding yet?”  They both shake their heads, as do both Kira’s parents.

Stiles glowers at the floor a little and sighs his disappointment, though he hadn’t been overly hopeful.  The entity still feels too _new_ , too present to be even a footnote in an old book.  But old _and_  new, _both_ old and new... he keeps coming back to that for some reason—

“Stiles?   _Stiles!!”_ When Stiles blinks back into focus, Kira’s got her worried face on, as do most the others.

“Sorry?”

“You were mumbling to yourself and your eyes were, like, a full galaxy away,” Kira says, looking troubled.  “And a— a _shadow_ passed behind your eyes.”

Stiles straightens and goes cold, but this time with _fear_ because  _now_ he feels it — that never-ending hum that’s amping up to an active buzz, fast.   _Too fast_.  His breath catches.

“It’s on the move,” he breathes out and Lydia gasps, then slaps her own hand over her mouth, visibly fighting back a scream.  Instead, she moans quietly, eyes closed tight and curling forward and Stiles finds himself somehow kneeling before her, instinctive fingers gentle on her temples, images flashing, a dark swell racing, building, covering, coating the _Ito pack house._

 _”Brett and Lori_ ,” he chokes out urgently.

There’s a mad scramble of motion (and at least one whimper) that has Satomi bolting out the door in an _actual_ blur, a stream of terrified pack and Deaton trailing just after.  Derek stands, looking torn between following them and watching over his impaired beta as she groans, rocking herself softly. 

“Stay put,” Stiles instructs them both, and then bolts, not for the door, but for his duffel on the front counter.  Somehow ingredients _fly_  off the shelves behind him and out of his bag in front of him as he focuses _every_ intuitive sense he has on a potion that will injure the damned thing or drive it back or (hopefully) kill it entirely. So it’s not a grenade he’s making this time — because what they need is a _bomb_.

His well-heated brass dish is just weirdly hovering in midair over an impossible green flame from _nowhere at all_  while he mixes, shreds, pours, lights, tugs his magic and the memory of that _perfect_ mystically-pure sunrise to the surface and somehow _pours it in._

The crystal bottle all but fills itself and is shining like a bright and tiny sun when he seals it and stuffs it into his hoodie.  A handful of mojo juices somehow shoot _themselves_ into his pockets too while he races back through the shop to Derek and Lydia, grabs them both by a shoulder each and just... _moves_ them.

Which is how they (hollllly shit that felt  _freaky weird_ ) arrive on the Ito’s front porch at the same time Satomi does, though stumbling through a rocky landing.  Satomi and Kira’s father vanish into the house yelling for Brett and Lori while Stiles shoves three mojo juices at a trusting Lydia who doesn’t hesitate to gulp them down, cringing, one after another as quick as she can.  Stiles grabs Kira and her mother as they nearly race past him and screw-words-there’s- _literally_ -no-time, just _shoves_ the image/idea of what he thinks will work into their minds. 

Headed toward the garden and the woods beyond (too dark, too shadowed), Stiles pulls his shining bottle out and steps off the porch, ringing Derek in mountain ash on the fly when he moves to follow, and then ignores Derek’s (understandably-freaked-out/worried/outraged) roar so he can focus on the _freaking wall_ of slick and inky _nothing_  that’s swelling high and then higher out of the forest like a movie-worthy tidal wave, set to crash over them all with those same freaky eyes, those _teeth_ —

Stiles _gulps_. He’ll own that. He also own trying desperately to  _not_  lose control of his suddenly _very_ full bladder.

And then it all comes together.

Kira and Noshiko (visibly terrified and trembling) are suddenly at Stiles’ left shoulder, their foxes bursting free — warriors of ancient wind and thundering fire.  Noshiko’s war cry sends her powerful winds sweeping inward like hurricanes, squeezing and condensing that impossible dark mass tight into itself while Kira’s lightning spears into it above and below like a thousand electrified lances.  Stiles’ eyes are power-bright when he launches his sunlight bomb and lets his magic sail it into the center of the evil who’s lipless mouth is stretching, widening, curling forward to crash, _infuriated_ , down on them all.  Stiles lifts his hands, presses against that darkness and holds it firm, _holds it back_ , somehow, until —

Until Lydia herself is at Stiles’ other shoulder, too centered and too serious to be even a little bit stoned and _literally_ glowing bright like a iridescent blue-white star in human form. ( _Hell yeah_ ) When she finally lets her now-magically nuclear-strength scream free to find it’s equally massive target a half-second later, it also shatters Stiles’ bottle. Then the whole of the night becomes, for one impossibly long minute, bright as a noon day.

The entity _screams_ , if that’s what one could even call it.  The ground-trembling, air-quaking sound is unlike anything that anyone _anywhere_ has ever heard, shrieking insanity and sickly hissing fury, warped and distorted horrors within it blurring strangely in the outline of Kira’s still-crackling lightning.

But the entity also _retreats_ while it screams, rolling away and diving back into the thicker shadows of the forest, confused and in pain and for once, _finally_ , afraid of _them._  Stiles isn’t the only one who snarls in satisfaction at it’s retreating form.

”’S’right, bitch,” Stiles growls as the thing’s crunching, grating sound finally fades away.   _“Get... The Fuck... off. our. lawn._

As the light dims slowly away and the stars overhead sprinkle back into view one by one, Lydia collapses in an exhausted heap at Stiles’ side a few seconds before he slumps down to join her.

Derek roars again.

*************

Deaton, not having the same power of those he humbly surrounds himself with, stays on the porch with an agitated Derek until they’re both stunned frozen and unblinking and _unbreathing_ , in wide-eyed horror. 

Despite Stiles’ descriptions, Deaton could never have imagined something so empty of nothing but ravenous malice swelling high into an otherwise peaceful, starlit night sky — only to watch the vast, collective power of two kitsunes, a banshee and a mage batter such a presence back, to wound it and _actually drive it away_.

No, he thinks absently as he tries (and fails) desperately to look away from that horrid un-empty ( _don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tsee_ ) void, he knows there’s nothing in _any_ book about something as incredibly atrocious as _this_.

He finds he _can_ move again (with a belated gasp and head-rushing dizziness) as the mystical daylight begins to fade as unnaturally slowly as it had suddenly, unnaturally _became_.  He hurries to release Derek from his barrier when Lydia and Stiles both collapse, but by the time they reach them, Stiles is shakily tipping a fresh potion into both himself and Lydia.  

Kira sobs into her mother’s shoulder, still trembling from the sheer, unexpected near-heart-stopping dread the entity had instilled.  Noshiko, wrapped tight around her daughter, looks no better, pale and shaking, even as her own damp eyes seek out her husband who’s now racing toward his family from the house to gather them both close.

Lydia, wincing, is massaging her undoubtably sore throat and coughing on the aftertaste of the restorative when Derek helps her up, then steadies her against him when she stumbles.  But it’s Stiles she looks to, (who’s also wobbling carefully to his feet) her mouth opening and closing for a second before she swallows with another wince.  

“Oh.  My.   _Goddess_ ,” she grates out, wiping tears from her cheeks.

Stiles’ jaw _drops_  open, eyes popping a little.  Then he smiles, somewhat shakily. “ _Jesus_ ,” he coughs out, wiping his own eyes, then laughs. 

Beside Deaton, Kira also bursts into laughter, a little manically, perhaps but—

“Yeah,” Kira agrees, giggle-sobbing and wiping her own stray tears away.  “You’re _totally_ Willow.  That was _hardcore_ , girl.”

Lydia smiles, though it’s strained and shaky. “Right back atcha.”

“Who does that make me?” Stiles queries, passing restorative bottles out to Kira and her mother, still blinking hard to reset his vision.

“Buffy,” Kira and Lydia both declare together, then each flash a quick grin at the other.

Stiles snorts and rubs at his eyes before he frowns, flares his eyes autumn-bright for a quick second, then huffs at himself.  His eyes flare again after he notices everyone else still struggling with their own spotty vision and Deaton himself feels his own sight clear with a blink.  

He makes certain Stiles sees his nod of thanks.

Lydia points to Kira with a proudly impressed sort of nod.  “Xander, who’s wise beyond his years and badass in his own right; or Anya, maybe... vengeance spirits and tricksters would have a lot in common, I’d think.”  Kira takes the compliment with a still-shaky but pleased smile.

All three of the teens look at Deaton next, who huffs with a strained smile, because he _knows_ , even before they speak.  “Giles.”

Derek is almost visibly shrinking while trying (and failing) to go unnoticed.  Kira points anyway.  “Angel.”

“Hey!” Derek protests grumpily, sounding a little affronted.  

Deaton’s tempted to point out that’s likely what Angel himself would say, but doesn’t.  No one need know he ever watched the show. 

Either of those shows. 

Religiously. 

Besides, Angel overcame his demons and Giles was hardly a doormat, by any means.  There are certainly worse comparisons.

“What?” Stiles protests at Derek’s protest, lips carefully _not_  twitching as he needles him.  “He’s dark, broody, and lurks in the shadows.”

Kira and Lydia both snort, eyeing each other in an oddly silent conversation through eyebrows, eye rolls, and lip twitches that have the snorts morphing into near-inexplicable, tearful snickers of hilarity.

Deaton suspects everyone involved is just grateful to be alive.

Considering what they’d all just faced, he himself certainly is.

*************

Stiles declines the offer of the Ito pack house guest room for the night, despite their semi-reasonable arguments on whether or not the entity will still be hunting.  Stiles _knows_ it’s not, because he knows it (unfortunately) grabbed a slightly replenishing snack on it’s way back to wherever it came from.  He told them as much, if only so they could all rest a little easier til morning.  They still weren’t happy to see him go.

It’s not sated, Stiles knows, but it’s done for tonight, at least. 

They’d actually _hurt_ it.   _Finally_.  And anything that can be hurt can be _killed_.

Still, he knows he won’t be sleeping with that monstrosity of evil still fresh in his mind.  He doubts any of the others will either.

So he’s not especially surprised by the text he gets at a little past one am, but _is_ surprised it’s from _Derek_  and not Kira.

DH:   _You okay?_

Stiles frowns at the message until the screen dims out but doesn’t reply right away.  Because he’s _not_  okay.  None of them are, really.

But he is content, for now, to stare up at the peacefully empty night sky through the netting of his tent and pretend for a little while that he’s just Joe Normal, average guy in an average town with average talents and an average future, currently on an odd but average camping trip.  Tries not to think that if the entity gets much stronger or bigger, none of them will even _have_ a future, let alone camping trips.

SS: _Are you?_   He sends back a little later.

DH:   _No._ he gets back a half-second after, like Derek had been _waiting_ for Stiles’ response. (Stiles does not, _at all_ , consider that’s the case, his quiet smile notwithstanding.)

SS:   _Will you be?_ He tries, though he thinks he knows the answer.

DH:   _Maybe._ followed by _You?_

Stiles huffs.  

SS:   _Shrug._

It’s as honest as Stiles can be and still remain hopefully kind rather than honestly cruel.  Because he’s not positive  _any_ of them will be okay now. The entity was bigger, this time.  Hungrier.  And much, _much_ stronger.  He can’t help but feel like they’re running out of time.

*************

“Changed m’mind,” Stiles declares the next morning when Danny hands him an extra large coffee that smells like all things perfect and beautiful and right in the world.  “You’re m’favorite,” he tells his caffeine-distributing savior.  Danny smirks and Kira huffs sleepily beside him.

“Screw you both,” she mutters, face-planting back onto her pillow/messengers bag.

“Sorry, dollface,” Danny tells her.  “You’re not my type.”  She flips him off, but she’s smiling from under her hair.  Danny slips a coffee into her hand too.

“You’re forgiven,” she tells him ten minutes later when hers is half gone.

“I know,” Danny smiles back from across the table.  

Neither Kira nor Stiles felt _any_  guilt about skipping zero hour today; though Danny maybe skipped too, if he’s got fresh Starbucks.  Both Stiles and Kira are trying to talk themselves into actually _going_ to first period, but so far the most Kira seems capable of is blinking and all Stiles can really do is look hopefully at the library door like maybe it’ll magically transport him there.

Then his sleep-deprived brain cranks up a half-notch and he rethinks _that_ thought.  

Because now?  It seems possible he could, somehow, make that happen.  And that’d probably be bad, in the presence of both classroom and hallway students and teachers.  He grunts to himself a little, feeling disgruntled.

“So... I’m glad I missed last night?” Danny asks delicately, eyes shifting from Stiles to Kira and back.  “But... what the hell _happened_?”

They both blink slowly and a little blearily at Danny some more before Stiles rallies himself into sitting _alllll_ the way up and forming whole sentences. 

“Well... Big scary evil tried to eat the Ito pack house and the two teen betas within, emphasis on _try_.  But _that_ was after we had a dual pack shindig of Derek and Lydia meeting the Ito’s and Deaton at the tea shop and even _that_ was after I stealth-eavesdropped at the loft and found out _Scott_  is the brainchild behind my banishment, despite the fact that he’s blaming most everyone else and is possibly, or probably, _still_ trying to rally everyone into ditching my ‘weak’, sorry, ass.  But _even that_ was after I decided to stealth stalk the Hale pack at the loft and found an Alpha werewolf pack was torturing Derek in an effort to recruit him for their own, had paralyzed Peter and had Cora pinned down while the real-life villain honest-to-god _monologued_  to the masses in an _evil-sounding accent._  

“So, I saved the Hales, became friends with Lydia again, because she’s _totally_ Willow, spell-stuck Scott to the ceiling of the loft, because _he’s a dick_ , brought two packs together to figure out the big evil of sacrificing and trees and the _bigger_ evil that almost ate Brett and Lori and we should _all_  be running scared, Danny, because it turns out Lydia and Kira _together?_   Fucking _terrifying._ ”

Danny blinks back at Stiles for a long minute, takes a slow sip of his own coffee, then nods decisively.

“Lydia can’t be Willow,” he says at last.  “Because Jackson will _never_ be as cool as Oz.”

*************

Ethan and Aiden, as Stiles predicted, did not leave town.  Nor did they get stolen away by an evil caster.  They were, however, more than a little rattled to learn that someone, _somehow_ , magically sprang the evil trio (for whatever reason) only moments after their own departure.

“What do you mean ‘after we left’?” Danny asks, frowning at Ethan.

Ethan freezes for a second, then shrugs a little uncomfortably.  “There’s... some things I left out when I told you about my past,” Ethan sighs apologetically.  Then, for some odd reason, widens his eyes _at Stiles_ in a hopeful sort of way.

“Nuh ugh.”  Stiles shakes his head, having caught the look out of the corner of his eye.  “I helped deal with an evil entity the size of a freaking five-story _building_ last night,” Stiles yawns grumpily at him over his calc homework.  “And that was after I magically drain-o-ed evil power away, which was no small feat.  Consider me on _sabbatical_  til Monday.”

So Aiden distracted himself through lunch by playfully flirting with a sleepy Kira while Ethan cuddled with Danny, trying to explain how he and his brother had ended up with the world’s most toxic packs not once, but _twice_.  Lydia joined them all for the second half of lunch in the library, but was silent once more.  Stiles wasn’t surprised.

“You’ll tell us when you’re ready,” he says with certainty, through another yawn.  She nods agreeably, points out the flaw in his homework’s second equation (even across the table and _upside down_ and likely as tired as he and Kira both are), then sneakily steals and drinks Stiles’ second coffee.

*************

Stiles works that night at the bar, happily settling back into his most mundane and stress-free roll: dishwasher.  The band hadn’t canceled, but nor had they shown.  Dan wasn’t happy.  The crowds weren’t either, all of them thin and exhausted-looking and crankier and rowdier without their promised entertainment.  Stiles sneakily infuses all the beers with mojo juice and hopes it helps a little.

*************

“What’s up, Doc?”  Stiles asks from the clinic’s office doorway Saturday morning.

Deaton blinks up at him from his desktop crystal-spire-gazing, and frowns.

“Did we have a meeting set for today?”

“No, no,” Stiles assured him, “actually, just... came to check on you.”

Deaton hikes his brows.  “I’m fine, for now.”  Stiles frowns at the wording.

“Okay, I sort of lied,” Stiles shrugs.  “I felt compelled to come.”  Well, no, that’s not quite right either. But it seems Stiles’ possible, magical, ‘invisible man’ was back and had been _poking_  at Stiles to come ever since he’d woken this morning.

Deaton sighs and rubs his eyes, looking weary and more than a little battered.  To Stiles, it looks as if the collective drama of the last few weeks is hitting Deaton harder than even Deaton likely thought it would.  He looks exhausted and stressed, though thankfully not ill or over-thin.

“I’d never considered, really,” Deaton begins, “that you’d so _accurately_ describe the entity.” Deaton looks a little abashed. “I’d always assumed you were exaggerating.”

Ah. Yeah, Deaton’s not okay then.  The first visual contact has, as best he can tell, one _hell_ of a punch to it.  The sheer size of the thing this time probably _tripled_ that punch.

“To be fair,” Stiles tells him, settling into Deaton’s spare office chair, “this time last year I probably would have.  But a lot’s changed since then. Me. You. Everyone.”

“How—“ Deaton stops, stares hard into his crystal, presses his lips thin and tries again.  “How do you ever _sleep_ , knowing that thing is out there?” He asks softly.

 _Wow_.  Deaton must be truly haunted to be seeking advice from _Stiles_ , of all people.  But it’s kind of an honor to be asked by a guy like Deaton, so Stiles thinks on it, staring at his woven-together fingers and remembers how it was in the beginning.  Cold, empty, lonely.   _So_ lonely.

“At first?  I didn’t,” he says honestly.  “Although... I was also very, very alone.  I sleep better now, but not really because I’ve gotten stronger, but because I know I’m _not_ alone anymore.  And that’s what _makes_ me stronger.”

Deaton blinks at him, then away, then threads his own trembling fingers together and squeezes them tight.

“It’s not really about power or strength anymore,” Stiles rambles on, though with sincerity. “It’s about faith, now.  I have faith in the people I’ve surrounded myself with.  Kira and Danny and you.  Satomi and her pack.  My friends and coworkers at the diner.  Dan-the-manager and everyone at the bar.  Even Lydia, Chris, and, hell, _even Derek_ , to an extent.  I have allies and I have friends.  We all do — and none of us are in this alone.

“You’ve got people at your back and by your side,” Stiles says, recalling Mr. Yukimura’s words.  Stiles leans forward and gives Deaton his best ‘take me seriously’ look.  “And you’ve got me.”

And he _does_.  Of _course_  he does.  Deaton was the first one beyond Melissa that Stiles truly felt that he had in his corner, or at least could depend on to not just simply... walk out —  _walk away_.  And Melissa was in his corner (and hopefully always would be), at least in part from having known Stiles’ mom; she’s practically his own surrogate mother, and they both know it.

But Deaton didn’t go out of his way to help Stiles because of some would-be parental obligation, or because of some lingering magical connection to the pack; no one had known _that_ was ever even _there_.  Deaton had still gone out of his way to make certain Stiles had a chance, no matter how small, to not just survive, but _thrive_.  

 _Of course_ Deaton has him.

On a whim, Stiles conjures (still with _no idea_  how) a bottle of Peaceful Calm from his duffel out in the jeep and hands it to Deaton.  “How ‘bout you relax and nap and I’ll go keep an eye on the critters til you’re rested a bit?”

Deaton takes the bottle with a quiet sigh, studies it for a minute, then nods and drinks it down. 

Stiles guides him over to Deaton’s own lumpy sofa and tips him onto it, pleased to hear a soft snore before he even dims the light. 

As promised, Stiles keeps the animals comfortable, letting his magic guide him through any care procedures, (though mostly petting and playing (new kittens!).  Also (because he could) teaching the cockatiel to say ‘ _Friennnnd_!’ in a fond sort of way, and writing down everything medical-ish he does for them so Deaton won’t accidentally do something twice.  

Deaton looks _worlds_ better when he wakes, giving Stiles a hearty shoulder squeeze in thanks before gently kicking him back out into the cold, cruel (gorgeous sunny day) world.

“Stiles,” Deaton calls from the clinic’s door when Stiles is halfway back to his jeep.  “My friends rarely call me ‘Doc’... they call me Alan.”  

 _Hooboy_... Stiles won’t lie — he  _totally_ gets a little lump in his throat for just a second, but nods with a smile. Stiles is glad Alan (damned if _that_ won’t take some getting used to) will have the cockatiel (at least until it’s itchy mites are gone) to remind Deaton of the same; he’s got a friend in Stiles, too.

Neither one notices Scott’s silent presence in the shadows of the alley. Nor do they see his quiet rage.

*************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh. My. Goddess.” (For those who’ve never been Buffy fans) is a reference to the final episode of the final season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I believe you can even find that particular scene on YouTube, if you don’t have Netflix. :)
> 
> CALLING ALL WOULD-BE TRICKSTERS!!!!!
> 
> I need ideas, damnit, prank war style. Nothing lethal or debilitating, but hell. The Hale Pack has earned a little. Like, a few percentage points or so.
> 
> Jackson himself (on Danny’s behalf) has earned a solid five or ten percent of his very own.
> 
> Scott has earned ALL the other percents, as far as I’m concerned.
> 
> Please hit me up if you’ve got a good one (or ten)!!!!! :D


	16. No Rest for the Weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles had reeeeeally hoped for a sabbatical from all the weird.
> 
> Weird happens.
> 
> Then Scott happens.

*************

Stiles works an early lunch shift at the diner after he leaves Deaton (Alan. Alan. Alan. Alan.) at the clinic, but it’s slow enough that they let him go by three, much to his disappointment.  Seems people just aren’t as hungry these last few days and his saved-up summer cash is trickling away bit by tiny bit.  It won’t last forever and he’ll need an actual shelter once autumn really kicks in.  He doubts he can magically heat himself straight through til spring and there’s still not even the slightest chance of moving back to his father’s, whether his father is there or not; he _knows_ he’ll never fall asleep under that roof again.

He’s just on his way out to the jeep when Lydia texts him to meet him at the flea market.... and then ignores his inquiring texts as to why. _Okay?_  Well, she’d done the same to Chris not long ago, and saved Stiles’ ass because of it.  If it’s just her minus the pack, sure. He can deal.

He arrives just in time now to meet her, (somewhere here?) and catch the last few hours of the market before the park officially closes for business.  There’s thinner crowds in the afternoon, though, which is nice.  At least a third the vendors have packed up for the day, but not all.  It makes it easy to notice the bonsai vendor, which has him veering that direction with Satomi in mind.  The fact that they have dreamcatchers of all sizes and shapes that practically radiate protective peace is a bonus he can’t pass up.

He knows he’s shooting his own pride in the foot by even thinking to buy one, but he owes Satomi a bonsai, though she’d laughed as hard as anyone at his first and only (so _very_ failed) attempt at wielding Kira’s old practice sword, but swore he’d already paid off the loss.  (Via his embarrassing entertainment value, no doubt.)  He pokes through the dwindling selection on the marketer’s table until he finds one that looks like the miniature version of the one he’d (destroyed) damaged.

But again and again, his eyes come back up to the tent’s edge and the dreamcatchers dangling and dancing there in the breeze.  One, specifically, is adorned with a half dozen silky black feathers and a familiar-looking lavender crystal he traces his finger down, and smiles at the small pulse of power that hums there.  Pricey dreamcatcher, if Chris was right.

“Well met, young mage.”  The voice that floats over the table is soothing, rich, and reminds him a little of Kira’s dad, though feminine.  “That one, I believe, was meant to be yours.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at the title but he’s weirdly unsurprised and unthreatened by the greeting.  He also thinks she’s right. This dreamcatcher _feels_  like his.  The woman herself has the wide dark eyes and sun-bronzed skin of a true native, mostly (except for the freckles, maybe), as well as rich, dark hair that falls nearly to her waist over a plaid shirt he thinks his mom once owned.  It makes her feel so familiar, somehow.

“They’re amazing,” he tells her honestly.  “Business must be booming these days, when everyone’s sleep is so unsettled.”

She smiles warmly at him, like they’ve known each other for an age when he’s certain he’d remember her.  

But he _does_ remember her, sort of.  Has seen her in town at some point with the older girl who’s laughing with another customer at the far end of the table.  Stiles recalls, dimly, the man rocking a sleepy toddler on his shoulder beside the car parked just behind the stall, too.  

He smiles back at the woman easily — strangely at ease, actually.  Like Parrish, almost.  And her aura, too, is warm and energetic and definitely part of the ‘human with bonuses’ crowd.  Maybe she’s Ito pack?  Doesn’t _feel_  like Ito pack, but...

“I do alright,” she admits.  “But I’m not one to take advantage of other’s need.  I sell them individually at a sizable discount, but all of them are free if they buy one of my bonsais.”  Her lips twitch up the slightest bit, crinkling the laugh lines by her eyes.  She’s maybe older than he’d first thought, but she looks somehow timeless, too.

“I’ve always wanted to make one—“ Stiles begins.

“A bonsai?” She teases, fishing for a box under the table that she eventually finds and hauls up to tuck his bonsai pot safely into.  Stiles huffs a smile and hands her the money while she unclips his dreamcatcher and tucks it in with the bonsai.

“No.  A dreamcatcher.  My mom tried to teach me when I was little, but I could never sit still long enough to learn.”  Until he’s said it, he hadn’t remembered that.  Good days, those.  A good memory, his mom sitting in the sunlight at the kitchen table with her crafting supplies... wearing almost the same shirt this woman has on now, in fact.  No wonder she feels familiar.

“Well, then. Let me show you,” she smiles, sliding over tools and twine and a pre-made circle of bound and dried vine already on the table waiting in front of her.

She _insists_ , twice, and now has a very ‘Melissa’ look in her eye.

“On your mother’s behalf, young mage.  Better to learn late than never,” she says.  

That’s true enough, though.  His mom would’ve liked this lady, he thinks.  They’d have been friends; Melissa too, probably.  They’d have all banded together in a League of Formidable Moms (who won’t take no for an answer).

He watches keenly as she walks him through it, step by step, even as her daughter calls out for her dad to toss her another box (he shoots it to her, overhanded like a basketball and the toddler grins sleepily around the thumb in his mouth) before turning to laugh at whatever the other customer had just said, her eyes for a second flashing faintly with a shifter’s green sheen.  He doubts anyone but him noticed.  Maybe they’re part of another local pack?  He’s never thought to ask Deaton ( _Alan, dangit_ ) if more _were_ nearby.  (He’d have told Stiles, though, right?  With the entity munching down local supernaturals?)

The dream catcher’s made in no time, and it’s beautiful, and so simply assembled he feels foolish for never having looked this up himself.  She twines a half-dozen simple feathers (owl, maybe?) to the end with a small oval moonstone and moves to wrap it up in tissue for him.

“Oh wait, no, that’s—“ he tries.

“A gift worth giving,” she interrupts with a little smile.  “And one _meant_ to be shared.  A moonstone is a powerful thing, as I’m sure you know,” she says mischievously, her head tilted a touch while she grins.  He huffs out another smile.

“So I’ve heard,” he says, his own lips still curved up.  “And sometimes called _Wolf’s Eye_ , with properties of healing, calming and intuition, among others.”  All perfect for a dreamcatcher, actually.  He should study stone properties more, maybe.  Kira has a book on it, he thinks.  Deaton definitely does.

Her eyes crinkle again when she smiles.  “So it is, and so it does.  A radiant stone, as well.  Put the dreamcatcher anywhere in a house, and the entire home is protected from dark dreams.”  She tapes the tissue paper closed and settles it into the box with the bonsai then slips it all into a larger brown bag.  

“Lets call this a fair trade: _You_ teach two people how to make them, have _them_ teach two more, a piece.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  We’ll have the whole territory protected in no time.”  And damnit, she looks so certain and sincere; it doesn’t keep him from feeling like a robber, though.

“I have to pay you something,” he tries, and _nope_.  Now she’s got that ‘Melissa’ look again and takes it one step further when she folds her arms in a stubborn way, cocks a hip, and lifts an almost sassy eyebrow at him.  

“A fair trade,” he sighs, reluctantly, though he quirks his own sassy eyebrow _right back_ at her, which has her barking out a little laugh.  The girl at the other end grins at them both with eyes that look just like her dad’s, a lovely hazel green.

The woman unexpectedly reaches out and cups Stiles’ cheek with a warm hand, smiling softly.  “Be well, young mage.”

He nods his thanks when she pulls away and then plucks up the bag.  ‘His’ dream catcher rests on top, feathers fluttering in the breeze, but there’s also a handful of mini half-dollar-sized ones down near the bottom, too, he sees.  Sneaky lady.  Somehow he doubts he could talk her into taking them back.  Maybe he’ll give one to Lydia when he finally finds her.

He’s still smiling down into the bag when he turns, almost tripping. (What _is_ it with abandoned carts here, _seriously?_ ) He catches himself (barely) and rolls his own eyes at his evidently rekindled clumsiness but doesn’t miss the woman’s voice behind him, still warm but a little strained.

“Hug them all close for me.  For _us._ ”

“Time to go, Laur,” the man’s voice says, quietly fading. “Leo’s exhausted.”

Stiles stumbles again when he feels the blood drain from his face in a rush because _of course_ he’s seen them before.   _Holy shit_ , of _course_ he has.  His breath catches when his heart damn near lurches into his throat and he whips back around, eyes wide.  

But by then, all of the tables and tent and bonsai’s and dreamcatchers and car are already gone... and the Hales along with them.

*************

Stiles is still standing there (relearning how to fucking _breathe_ ) nearly five minutes later, hand shaky when he pulls out his cell phone.  

There are no recent texts from Lydia.

*************

Stiles swallows hard and his hand is _still_ shaking a little when he picks the bag up again from where he’d dropped it in the middle of the lane.   _It’s real_.  A _real_ bag and a _real_ bonsai and _real_ feathers and _real_ tiny protection crystal that grows a touch darker when he traces his finger over it again.  His breath is hitching a little with—

_Holy hell._

Time to talk to Deaton— ( _Alan_. Alan, Alan, Alan), maybe.  Unless... _Shit._

Alan _loved_ Talia, he thinks, just based off the way he’s spoken of her before.  Maybe loved her in a way he couldn’t help, even with her happily married.  But if what just happened to Stiles had happened to Alan instead, with... Stiles’ _mom_ , maybe, as a ghostly visitor?  Would he _want_ Alan to tell him?

But then, how would Stiles himself handle it, knowing how _close_ she’d been and he never got to see her himself?  How would he _deal_ with that kind of unfairness?  But that’s... _a mom_ , and not a close, trusted friend, so...

_Shit._

He doesn’t want to make this choice.  Except, is it a choice, even?

‘ _Hug them all close for me. For us_.’  Talia had wanted her children and brother to know, if this had seriously just happened at all.  

_The bonsai is real.  So are the dreamcatchers._

He can’t _not_ tell the Hales, really; and they’ll likely tell Alan anyway.

Okay... So, Alan first then.

*************

It’s ten minutes til closing when Stiles gets back to the clinic, still feeling a little (a lot) trembly on the inside.  But it’s not Deaton manning the store, despite his car still parked in the lot.  Scott’s there behind the counter with a broom, his lips pressing thin when the door chimes over Stiles’ head and now Stiles is kicking himself for spacing out enough to forget to come in unseen.

Scott looks odd, actually, his face a little pale and his eyes suspicious and nearly hostile.   _Why, even?_ Stiles isn’t the one who’s to blame for any of this; hasn’t Scott accepted that yet?  If anything, _Scott_ might be more to blame than Stiles.  All Stiles did was survive this whole shit show that _Scott himself_ half-set into motion.

But Scott’s not the issue right now.  Stiles wraps the chill (that for once _doesn’t_ come sweeping in fast enough) around him as best he can, like a blanket.

“Deaton in?” He asks bluntly.

“Left to get dinner,” Scott bites out, not taking his eyes off Stiles.  “What do _you_ want with him?”

“That’s between me and him,” Stiles snaps in return, trying to yank and tug his blanket of cold tighter around him.  It seems weirdly reluctant, for some reason, like it’s still not over the shock of inexplicable Hale ghosts.

“Yeah,” Scott scoffs, turning away and setting the broom aside.  “ _Right_.”  But he doesn’t say it with doubt, somehow.  There’s something under those words Stiles can’t really parse, and probably shouldn’t in his current still-shocky state of mind.

Stiles turns to leave because this is _not_ a great conversation to have (ever) when he’s already been thrown for a seriously freaky loop once today.  He doesn’t get further than a hand on the door handle, though.

“ _How long_ , Stiles?” Scott demands from behind him.  “How long until _he dies_ because he just happened to be standing next to _you?_ ”

Stiles turns back, slowly.   _“What?”_ He chokes out softly.  He honestly can’t tell if he’s more angry or confused or appalled.  “What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

Scott’s expression is all angry accusation with his jaw clenched and hands bunched into tight fists on the counter.

“It actually _is_ gunning for you, isn’t it?” Scott demands.  “That nightmare entity thing?  Which means _anyone_ close to you is a target.  Anyone.  You know; _like Allison_ , maybe!  Because _that_ already happened!  You said it yourself that it’s come after you through people! So I wanna know!   How long until he dies, or someone else in my pack, or my mom, maybe, because _you_  just couldn’t stay the hell away from them?”

Stiles’ chill creeps a fraction deeper.  Not _nearly_ deep enough, though, for him not to feel every word like a fucking knife.

“I’d never let anything happen to them,” he rasps out.   _“Never.”_

“Except it already _did_ , Stiles!  Allison!  Your own dad!  Derek!  Will Dr. Deaton be next?  Will it be _my mom?!”_   Scott’s shouting now as he paces out from behind the counter and something inside Stiles feels like it’s _cracking_ with every cutting _(maybe true)_ word.  But that’s a low blow even for Scott.

“I’d give _my life_ for your mom and _you fucking know it,_ ” Stiles grits out, buckling down hard on the angry surge of magic that tries to claw it’s way out of him.  Then he buckles it down even harder because it feels  _very_ much like it wants to claw it’s way through _Scott_ next.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Scott scoffs, eyes heating up to a faint gold.  “Yeah, I know you’d _try_ , Stiles.  If you even _had_ a full handle on whatever magical bullshit you’re toting now, except you don’t!  Which makes it even _worse_ when she’s not even _your mom_.  She’s _mine_ and she’s the only one I’ve got.  And you!  You’re just...” Scott flaps a hand toward the front entrance, maybe indicating the parking lot or the town or the world at large, “all too willing to drag _even more_ people into the line of fire so you can try to keep close to people you don’t even have the goddamn _right to!!_   Because they _aren’t_ yours!  And you _will_  get them killed!”

Stiles feels like he’s facing down the entity in the street with Parrish again, suddenly, for all the difference it makes.  Because he can’t fucking _move_ , too filled with a combination of shock and anger and that sickening sense of something _(guilt)_ he can’t name to even let go of the door handle that’s frosting over under his hand.  Because Scott might actually be right, in a way.

“You were supposed to stay out of it,” Scott growls out.  “Not drag people down with you.” Scott huffs again when Stiles still says nothing.  “There’s a reason Derek hasn’t invited you ‘ _back_ ’,” Scott spits out maliciously.  “Because you were never really a part of us to begin with.  He’ll take you _now_ , sure!  If it keep any of the rest of us from getting sick like he did?  Yeah — he’ll accept your _‘help’._ He’ll tell you anything you want to hear, probably, and maybe even convince himself it’s real enough not to sound like a lie.  But _we_  were all better off before _you_ started sticking your nose back in it.”

Scott’s heartbeat is racing, but it’s steady, holy shit.   _It’s steady._ Stiles swallows around a suddenly dry tongue.

Scott stops his frantic pacing, finally, and he’s pale, even with that righteous expression.  But his words are quiet now and his hand flops out and drops with an odd sense of finality.

“Just — _stay away from them, Stiles_.  Stay away from my pack. You get me?  _My_ pack.  _My_ mom.  _My_ boss. Stay out of their lives, before you get _all_ the people I love killed.”

That said, Scott finally turns and storms back past the counter and through to the exam room, door slamming shut behind him.

Stiles stands frozen, blinking around the empty waiting room for a long minute, heart beating, then thudding, then thumping, then thundering while his breath wheezes in and out while his chest tightens until he’s stumbling backward and then out the door, lurching dizzily toward his jeep.  He sucks in a breath as deep as he can and holds it tight, scrambling to get his keys out, struggles harder still his trembling hand to shove the keys into the ignition and turn the crank.  He takes his next breath three full blocks later at a stoplight and holds that one too, each breath further from the clinic a little easier and a little deeper until he lurches off a silent, empty road five miles later, barely opening the door in time to lose what’s left of his lunch.  He sits there in his jeep, silent and quaking and sick until long after the sun goes down.

 

*************


	17. Scott McCall: Professional Idiot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no justification for stupidity. It still might take Scott a while to remember that.

*******

Alan strolls slowly through the back alleys, trying to finish his rather childish looking beverage before he gets back to the clinic.He’s not overly concerned with appearance, but knows he looks a little silly with his large, pink strawberry milkshake in hand.  But: do something childlike and care-free once a day and you’ll never get old.  Satomi’s had sworn that was the secret to long life, and since she’d done so on her one hundredth birthday, Alan had little reason to doubt her.

There are hazy puffs of low-hanging clouds passing overhead, leaving the dim stars winking in and out of view and something about the sight of it troubles him.  There’s something in the air that feels almost like dread, though not quite like danger, exactly.  He speeds his steps a little, tossing the remains of his drink into the next dumpster he passes, and is swiftly unlocking the clinic’s back door a moment later — and very nearly runs into Scott while he’s stumbling out of the bathroom, looking a little pale and shaken.

“Scott?” He asks, concerned.  “Are you alright?” Scott’s lips press tight before he nods jerkily.

“Yeah, um... Stiles stopped by looking for you,” he mutters, his eyes shifting away.

“Ah,” Alan nods. Of course, that might leave Scott feeling a touch off-center, still unknowing of the frayed bond that somehow still lingers between them.  “Did he leave a message?”  Scott shakes his head with his jaw clenched, eyes flitting to Alan’s and away again.

It’s not really Alan’s place to ask about whatever became of their friendship, though he does wonder.  Stiles won’t speak of it at all and neither has seemed truly settled or fully complete without the other in their lives.  If the rift doesn’t settle itself soon, it might be best to suggest deliberately severing what remains of the bond, for both their sakes.

“I see.  Well... if you’re done with the sweeping, why don’t you go home for the night?  You’re not looking well, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Scott’s eyes shift to Alan’s and away again, one last time, nodding stiltedly.  “Yeah.  I’ll just... finish up out front first,” he says, then shuffles towards the waiting room, looking unhappier than Alan can ever recall when he pauses, turning half back as if to speak, but stops himself, shakes his head a little and hurries out.

*******

Scott grabs the broom where he’d left it leaning behind the counter and frowns at the empty waiting room, feeling uneasy.   _No._ No, he feels the sense of dread that Stiles left in his wake; that’s all it is.  It must be.  Really, who else can leave the air feeling this way just from being in a room for five minutes?  Nothing else can feel—

Scott shakes his head sharply.  Except, there’s not even a lingering scent of Stiles in here anymore.  Probably one of his magic necklaces or something.  But now — now it’s like he was never here at all.  Scott’s chest tightens uncomfortably at the mere thought and he sucks in a breath that feels a little like the first wheezy breath of an asthma attack.  But there is something— off.  Different.  _New_.

He hadn’t even seen Stiles holding a bag, let alone heard one drop on the floor.  But _is_ it Stiles’ bag?  It doesn’t smell like Stiles.  It smells like... Hale.  Scott huffs his annoyance and pokes into it.  A plant; one of the little fancy ones.  Bonsai? Maybe?  And dreamcatchers?  Well... okay, _those_ make sense, if they work.  But for them all to smell like Hale pack?  

Scott growls quietly and his lips press tight.  Figures that Stiles would think one of the Hales is his fastest way back in, if that’s what he’s after.  But this is just—  He’d thought better of Stiles than to try to manipulate any of them with something as _cruel_ as this.  Doesn’t Stiles understand how powerful scent _is_ to werewolves?  And part of the scent...  He _knows_ it’s Laura’s.  He’ll never forget her scent, much as he’d like to.  So this?  It’s sick, really. What the hell had happened to Stiles that he’d resort to this?  

Scott flinches almost _before_  his mind supplies an answer.

But... Is it even _Stiles_ anymore that they’re dealing with, though? It’s not the first time he’s wondered, what with Stiles practically _running_ from him every time Scott gets close.  Maybe it’s _not_ him anymore; why else would he go through so much trouble to avoid the _one_ person who knows him best?  The Stiles that Scott knew would never be capable of this— not taunting those who’ve already lost so much because the Stiles that Scott knew _knows_ what it is to lose someone so close.  The Stiles he knew _couldn’t_ do this to someone.  But now... it’s _not_ the Stiles he knew anymore.  How can it be?

No, better he’s chased off Stiles now than before he can pull shit like this off, if this is the kind of thing he’s capable of now.  It’s better this way.  _Isn’t it?_

It’s for everyone’s own good; especially Stiles — no matter which version of him it is, Stiles will be better off, _safer_ , without hanging around the _actual_ supernaturals who will be targeted first, like Chris seems to think they are.  Yeah, Stiles has a connection to it, sure.  But if he were a real target, he’d be _dead_ -dead by now.  Not to mention it’s the pack who actually stands the best chance of really stopping this thing.  Well, maybe the kitsunes, too, if what Derek said about the other night was right.  It sounded a lot like Lydia and Kira and her mom did all the work while Stiles made a fancy glowing bottle and then just stood there, or something; Stiles is lucky to still be alive.  

Yeah, Scott’s doing the right thing, no matter how much it sucked to say all that stupid crap to Stiles. They can all work things out with him after, maybe, if anyone even still wants to by then.  No matter how twisted around everyone’s heads are right now, Scott can keep them safe easier if Stiles just keeps _away_ for now.

He frowns down at the bag and sighs, then decides to maybe just toss it on his way home.

*******

Stiles stares into the empty night and tries not to think.  About anything.  He fails, miserably.

Maybe his magic had the right idea.   _He was so angry._   Magically bitchslap Scott before that torrent of words ever escaped.  _His heartbeat was steady._ Does Scott even have the right to— _He believed it._ Does he really think Stiles won’t give _everything_ he has to keep the pack safe?  To keep _Melissa_ safe?  _The people he has no right to?_   The people he’s maybe _never_  had the right to?  _The people his magic might’ve bonded him to without their knowledge or say so?_   It’s not his fault; it’s _not_.

_Unless it is._

*******

The alley beside Jungle, according to the rumors, is never empty on Saturday.  Tonight’s no exception.  Stiles can _feel_ the shadows slithering, sees more than one set of eyes, cold and cruel and empty and warping slightly as he passes by.  He’s tempted to conjure another sunlight bomb and set it off here and now just to see what happens and damn the consequences.  

He doesn’t — he finds the darkest corner instead.  He finds a forgotten half-pack of cigarettes too, lights one up to let the light-headedness and the dry, acrid taste calm him for just a few minutes, and listens to the faint sounds of flesh and sighs and the occasional gasp or grunt, the occasional plea and whimper.

“Those smokes ain’t yours,” a deep gritty voice mutters quietly from out of the dark.  Stiles takes another drag.

“Not yours either,” he mutters back.  He doesn’t care if it’s true.

There’s a quiet, interested huff of breath, then a dark shape steps forward, tilts it’s head a little dangerously.  “Prove it,” the shadow demands.

Stiles takes another slow drag and wonders what the bright ember flare of it does to his eyes in the dark; wonders if they look at hollow and careless as he feels.  He blows out a stream of smoke and flicks the rest of the cigarette away.  _“Make me.”_

The shadow does exactly that.

 

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say: Scott’s hearing these days is very, very selective. :/


	18. Busy little ants

*************

Stiles wakes early, thrown from a fevered dream where a sickly little shape with too-sharp teeth and deep-set eyes cowered angrily, hidden away behind thick twisted roots, hissing and spitting and swiping out at him while it slowly regained it’s strength.  He’s not especially surprised to find a deep set of scratches tracing down from his collarbone to sternum, and drags over them with his thumb again and again to appreciate the little sting, his other hand creeping down for a bit of self-relief as the sky lightens slowly toward day.  It’s not a terrible way to wake up.  

He’s a little surprised to be awake this early at all, though, since last night had left him paranoid enough (thanks a lot Scott) for him to drive to the houses of just about everyone he knew and put protections in place, just in case they really _are_ , somehow, a target by association.  He half-assed the loft though, after hearing the rather telling sounds of squeaky bedsprings and an unfamiliar woman’s (moan) voice.

But, crappy sleep or not, now he’s got time to kill before the front office opens for equipment rental, so he grabs the duffel and hikes out into the dim morning light to wait for sunrise; it’s about damn time he worked on some of those backup-backup plans he’s always been so proud of.

*************

The only thing Stiles had ever ‘rented’ from the front office of his campground was a hacksaw for his magical branch (not like the owners of said hacksaw would let him pay for it’s use), but this time he actually does pay to rent the fancy GPS, and buys a mega-sized map of the entire county he knows he could probably get cheaper from Chris or Parrish, (if not for free), but this feels strangely like something he needs to complete either alone or with his trusted besties.  

But... would that be putting Danny or Kira at risk?  He’s not certain one way or another, (though Allison kidnapping all three of them seems like a pretty telling prediction), but now he’s doubly pissed off with Scott for even putting the idea into his head that Stiles just _being Stiles_ could ultimately get them hurt. 

He uses a bit of electrical tape to fix the map to the side of his jeep and gets down to his spell work.  He starts with the ridiculous basics he’s pretty sure won’t work at all.  

‘Find the evil’ (as expected) doesn’t do anything at all; maybe, he thinks, because ‘evil’ is mostly a concept based on one’s perception of good and bad.  ‘Find the entity’ is equally unhelpful.  After blowing some ash and red chalk over his next spell, ‘find the power’ finds (because of course) himself at his campsite and a few brighter hazy areas set out into the woods all over the county that he suspects (because there’s one not far from where he’s standing) are sacred places, like his very own magical rowan tree.  He knows he doesn’t exactly need the GPS for any of this (since he’s fairly sure he could ‘feel’ his way to just about anywhere), but once the hunt is officially on for the entity, Stiles would like to tell Chris or whoever something slightly less vague than ‘about a klick past the giant pine that’s sitting on the edge of a cliff’.

‘Find the territories’ gives him enormous, smooth lines (blue for the Hale territory and yellow for Ito territory,) including the parts of those territories that overlap into the three towns.  The Hale territory is, in a word, _huge -_  it’s easily five times bigger than the Ito territory and cover’s most of the preserve, which seems odd when the Ito’s outnumber them by almost five to one.  But, whatever; just looking at the map gives him a weird sense of satisfaction to know it’s all _his_ territory as well.

‘Find the werewolves’ works almost too well, and wildly unexpected to see there’s nearly two hundred, collectively.  ‘Find the supernaturals, though... well, the pink chalk almost disappears because WHOA — there’s more than _five_ _hundred_ throughout the entire county.  No wonder the entity is growing so quickly when there’s just so very _much_ for it to feed on.  

But that’s largely unimportant, for now, anyway.  Today he’s hiking territory lines, starting with his own, all the way around the county.

He breaks his own rule on talking and driving to call Peter.

“Stiles?  Is everything alright?”  Peter sounds concerned... which maybe makes sense since he hasn’t deliberately called anyone but Lydia for anything but emergencies in months. (Not like they would’ve answered, but...)

“Yup.  Just wanted to give you guys a head’s up; I’m marking the county perimeter today and a sizable chunk runs along the Hale territory border.  If you guys happen to see a magical handprint on a tree, don’t screw with it, please?”

“A handprint?” Peter sounds either unimpressed or blandly amused.  Tough to tell over the phone, actually.

“Pretty sure I’m the only Red Mage in North America.  Somehow I don’t think anyone will confuse my marker with someone else’s,” he replies with equal blandness.  Peter huffs.

“Well, thank you for the warning, but... is there a reason you’re calling _me_  and _not_  Derek?“

There is, actually, but Stiles has no idea what that reason is, exactly, except that calling Derek seemed like a bad idea.  Besides, Peter’s got a much more level head these days.

“Were you or were you not the only one aside from Lydia who didn’t completely lose their shit when I was yanking evil out of Derek’s brain?”

“....I was,” he says cautiously.  “More or less.”

“Well, it’s a simple concept, really.  I trust those best who I know _trust me._  And of all of you, you’re the only one in the pack who’s got even a smidge of a clue what a mage truly is and is capable of doing and therefor have the best chance of explaining to everyone else why I actually need literal, physical space to get my shit done.  If anyone comes out to disturb me, they’re liable to get frozen to a tree for a week, or something, if they catch me at a delicate moment.”

“Ah, I see...” There’s a faint muttering in the background that has Stiles’ teeth grinding together and that old familiar chill seeping under his skin.  It lessens only slightly when Derek comes on the line.

“I don’t think you should be out there alone,” Derek says straight off.

“Oh?” Stiles says a little (a damn lot) scornfully.  “And why is that?  Still think I’m some brainless, hapless, helpless, weak little human?”

Derek sucks in a breath.  “ _No,_ not even a little bit.  (He sounds sincere, which has Stiles’ shoulders unbunching) “But I wouldn’t want any of the betas out there alone either.”

Stiles sighs.  “Your betas can’t teleport themselves to safety in an emergency, but if you really feel the need, send Peter out, if he’s up for a hike.  At least I know he won’t deliberately get in my way if something funky happens.  But if you’d rather, I’ll call Chris and have him meet me instead.  I’m pretty sure he’d be agreeable.”

“None of us will get in your way, Stiles,” Derek huffs, sounding a little impatient.

“And yet, saying that the way you just did makes it sound a little like the whole lot of you are suddenly planning a spontaneous mobile picnic.  Derek, I need _actual_ space — literal, physical space to lock this warning spell into place and any other supernatural anythings out there will only set it off and screw the entire thing up.  Since nearly all your school-bound puppies have a tough time with the concept of ‘stay the fuck away’, I can only assume that won’t improve when we’re nowhere near school that we have to share classes in.”

Stiles turns onto the northbound road that leads to the Ito’s and Hale’s closest borders and slows while he looks for a good place to leave the jeep and (because of course) almost immediately spots a small lot for local hikers to leave their cars.

“A warning spell?” Derek asks, sounding both annoyed and confused.  “Warning for what, exactly?”

“The entity,” Stiles half-lies, then frowns at himself because there’s no reason not to mention the caster, yet... it feels like as bad an idea as calling Derek directly did. “Look, straight up?  I need to do this.  I can do it and skip Hale territory entirely, but that just means you’ll be the only one who doesn’t get a warning whenever this thing finally crawls it’s way topside and starts snacking on people again.  So tell me now if I need to skip your turf or not.  I’d rather add it in because it’s more efficient and a hell of a lot safer, but I don’t have to.”  There’s more muttering in the background and Stiles sighs while he tries not to grind his upper molars straight through his lower ones.  “You’re going to get me killed, Derek.”

“Wait, what?!” Derek snaps, sounding a little panicked.

“I mean quit consulting with the masses.  I’m asking you, Alpha Hale, and only you now because...” Stiles steps out of the jeep and makes a deliberate little magical ‘thud’ on the very edge of Hale lands and hears Derek suck in a breath over the phone.  “Because that’s the warning you’ll get if something’s about to snack on your pack or someone else who’s on your turf.  Or, you’ll get no warning at all and damned for the consequences.  But either you decide now, or I’ll end up out here alone well after dark, and that really _might_  get me killed.”

“Stiles...”

“Yes or no, Derek.  I can either be done with your territory in an hour or I’ll skip it.  Right now — yes or no?”

“Yes, do it,” he snaps, sounding frustrated.  “Peter’s just walked out.  Where can he find you?”

“I’ll send him a friendly note.  I gotta go.”  Stiles hangs up and puts his phone on silent, parks himself next to a tree and just breathes for a few minutes to chill himself back out.  One would think they’d have some (any) faith in his abilities by now.  Derek especially, since he knows, _has seen_ , what Stiles is capable of on a five-story tall scale.  Once he’s calmed, he focuses on the map image in his mind, sees himself as that easy red dot, then stretches out with his own bond to Peter (that hopefully Peter will keep to himself if he realizes what it is) and gives it the same mental image of his own location.  He feels the echo of Peter (likely in his car) headed this direction and wanders back to the jeep to set up.

*************

Peter’s giving him a _look_ , Stiles knows.It’s the same look Stiles had gotten from Alan and Kira and even Danny once they’d individually learned about his remaining pack bond.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Stiles sighs, not (quite) looking up at Peter. “It’s not something I can control, I don’t think.  Them knowing will only complicate shit and make me feel even worse.”  Peter doesn’t answer beyond a sigh of his own, but after a minute, Stiles sees him nod out of the corner of his eye.

“So... is there anything I _can_ do besides keep an acceptable distance away?”

Stiles huffs and holds out the amulet he’d been finishing off.  “I can neutralize you, if you’d rather stay closer, but I wasn’t about to tell _them_ that.  Hard enough being around them all in school and the last thing I need is any of them thinking there’s some ‘magical fix’ that’ll make their presence easier to deal with that I’m just ‘holding out on’ or some bullshit.  Even if I did have one, I’d be well within my rights to not hand it out willy nilly just to soothe someone’s conscience.  You, I’m less worried about.  Choice is yours, though,” Stiles says, jiggling the small wooden tag on a bit of string.

Peter frowns, but steps forward to grasp it, eyes widening when he can’t.  He steps back in a hurry, looking a little freaked and a tiny bit angry.  Stiles kinda expected this reaction though.

“Yes, it’s rowan.  No, it won’t hurt you.  But it will neutralize your wolfiness while you’re wearing it so you won’t ping up on my supernatural radar,” Stiles explains quietly.  “And as of right now, you’re exactly one of two people on the planet who even know it’s even possible, let alone that one exists.”  It’s a gamble, showing Peter this little trick he’s pretty sure even he, with whatever power he’s amassed, likely isn’t supposed to be able to do.

Peter frowns again, lips pursing a little, like he’s considering every angle of this olive branch.

“I’m asking for your trust, too, you know,” Stiles adds. “Anyone else finds out I can pull something like this off, I’ll likely be kidnapped by hunters to mass produce the things, or assassinated by something supernatural by the end of the week.  I can’t imagine there’s a pack or pack-equivalent in existence who would tolerate sharing a planet with someone who can essentially make them unnaturally human, even temporarily,” Stiles says quietly.  Peter stares at him for a second, then steps forward again and lets Stiles slip the cord over his head.  “Thank you,” Stiles says quietly.

“I do trust you,” Peter says easily.  “But now I feel puny.”  Peter makes a face that Stiles is tempted to make fun of, but doesn’t.

“Well, you still look like you could rip my arms off, if it makes you feel any better,” Stiles says with a little smile, hauling his backpack up and affixing it backward onto his chest.

“It really doesn’t, at the moment,” Peter murmurs, bouncing a little on his toes with a slightly distasteful expression.  “I really don’t like this feeling much.  Do all humans feel this..... weak?”

Stiles huffs with a head-nod onward and starts walking.  “Yes and no.  Is it much different than you felt after you first crawled out of your grave?”

“About the same,” Peter admits. “I didn’t like it then either.”

“Well, it’s only for an hour or so, so...”

Peter gives him a look.  “The county edge is longer than that, on the Hale side.”

“Yup.  But we’ll be teleporting more than walking.”  Stiles grins at Peter’s doubtful expression, then bumps his shoulder to Peter’s and laughs at his gobsmacked expression when they’re suddenly fifty feet further than they’d been a second before. “I’ve been practicing,” Stiles admits as he heads for a sturdy-looking maple tree and unzips his pack, dips a hand in and presses a red-white-grey streaky-powder-coated hand to the tree, smiling when it hums a little with power, then pulls out his handy GPS and notepad and hands them to Peter.  “Just the coordinates, in order?” Stiles waits for Peter’s hand to stop moving, bumps Peter again to the next little patch of trees to repeat the process.

“What is that, exactly?” Peter finally asks three ‘bumps’ later, frowning into the open bag at the large sack of the chalky-looking mixture inside.

Stiles chews on his lip, then sighs, giving Peter a serious look.  “Most of it’s Barrier Elm,” he admits quietly.  “To keep the caster from fucking with it.  But there’s also mountain ash to keep any supernaturals from fucking with it and my own ingredient that’ll essentially keep it’s power on my own continual radar rather than only entrusting it to whoever’s property the land happens to be owned by or protected by, at the time.  Most ‘mundane’ folk won’t even be able to see the marker.”

Peter’s eyes are wide and jaw slack for half a second before he snaps it closed, looking nervous.  “Do you know what hunters will do if they find out you’ve made Barrier Elm?” He breathes out softly, like he’s worried the words will carry on the non-existent breeze.  Stiles understands this reaction, since it’s main purpose is to contain humans like mountain ash does for most supernaturals.

“Yes.  But I’m not telling a hunter.  I’m not telling the whole pack, either.  I’m telling you and only you.”

Peter sucks in a breath and looks around, like he’s worried a pack mate or a hunter is maybe hiding around the next skinny tree.  “I’m a little sorry I asked, now,” he mutters.  But he also looks pleased, too, that Stiles feels he can trust him with this.  Stiles, for whatever reason, actually _does_ trust Peter, and probably looks as stupidly glad as he feels that there’s still someone in the pack who isn’t a mostly-silent banshee he can come to with things like this; it seems wise to let at least one person know what kind of power is really going into a warning on the very edge of a territory.  And while he’s not the alpha, (had made a shit alpha, even with extenuating circumstances) Peter’s a fair guy, all in all, and a good wolf.  Better than he realizes, in Stiles’ opinion.

Twenty-three ‘bumps’ later and they’re finally done with the Hale section and Peter flexes his claws and flares his eyes with a sense of relief when Stiles takes the amulet back and tucks it deep into the mixture in his bag where no one else can get to it.  Stiles ‘bumps’ them back to their starting point and their vehicles.  

Aaaand Stiles is so glad he’d annexed Peter’s amulet before they bumped back rather than now, because he and Peter can roll their eyes in a commiserating sort of way when they both find/hear/smell/feel three Hale betas lurking in the trees proving Stiles was right and Derek’s still sometimes an idiot. Stiles goes unseen after a quick and meaningful look of ‘brb’ to Peter and a half minute later he’s handing a fresh bottle of water to Peter, cracking the seal on his own bottle and they both grin appreciatively at the triple-protest of betas squawking indignantly when they realize they’re stuck where they stand, ringed in mountain ash.There’s not even enough room in their little circles for them to sit, let alone lay down.

“Thank you,” Peter says politely while accepting and opening his water and joins Stiles where he’s leaning against the jeep.  “So, how long will the rest of the county take, then?”  Jackson, who’s furthest away, lets out a barely-heard growl of discomfort where he’d been hidden, (and conveniently, for Stiles) wedged tight between two trees.

“Not sure?  I doubt Satomi will insist on an escort and I think I can go a bit faster without one.  Should be done with the county line in..... three hours?  After that I’ll get the rest of the inner territory borders and just set as many markers in the non-territory wooded spots as I can before nightfall.  After that?  As many city markers as I can before I need to finish an essay for class tomorrow.”

“Ah,” Peter nods, looking a little knowing and thoughtful.  “I’d never truly considered the possible overflowing schedule of a high school mage before.  Are your days always this busy?  It sounds exhausting.”

“Some days, yeah.  But I’ve usually got work, too. That takes a good chunk of my free time.”

“Where do you work, anyhow?”  Peter looks genuinely curious.

Stiles blank-faced stares him down, until Peter looks away with a ‘just curious’ shrug, to make his point.

“I work where there is, barring freakish incidents, nothing even remotely weird to remind me of my occasionally god-awful freaky reality.  My work is my haven away from all the supernatural shit.  It’s one of the only things I had to keep me sane after you guys all ditched me,” Stiles says bluntly, ignoring Boyd’s almost-silent whine of guilt and Erica’s quiet sniffle.  “If any wayward wolves, banshees, hunters or otherwise associated persons _ever_ show up at my job, there will be mage-level hell to pay unless there’s a damned good life or death reason for it that couldn’t be handled with a simple phone call.”

Peter nods with sincerity.  “I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles, sighing.  “Sorry... been a weird weekend,” Stiles mumbles, thinking of the flea market incident he’s no longer certain even happened now, since the bag he’d had and all the (real/not real) bonsai and dreamcatchers within it all vanished, to say nothing of the conversation with Scott afterward. “I’m not trying to take it out on you... or anyone, really.”

“Think nothing of it,” Peter says softly, his eyes distant.  “And the misbehaving pups?”  Erica snarls quietly from her spot plastered against a sap-sticky pine tree.

“Don’t suppose Lydia can let them out later?” Stiles asks hopefully with a twitch of lips.

“I believe she’s shopping with her mother in Chase County today... I doubt she’ll be back til late afternoon,” Peter says with a benign smile in return.

Stiles nods with a hum, finishing his bottle of water.  “Well I’d hate to disturb her during mother and daughter shopping time.  Could you let her know a little later for me?”

“Of course,” Peter nods, once, then heads for his car.  “Safe travels, Stiles!” He says cheerily, ignoring the beta’s affronted protests at their abandonment.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Peter,” Stiles calls with a pleasant wave as Peter drives off.  Then he locks his jeep up, hauls on his backpack again and ‘bumps’ out to the next patch of trees.

*************

Satomi, as predicted, was fine with Stiles cruising past without worry, but Stiles was glad to have the company when Kira joined him for a little jaunt until she herself had to run home to catch her shift at the tea shop.  Stiles kinda wishes he’d brought Danny along too; being a guardian of forests and plants and animals, he’d have liked to get a feel for their collective ‘forest territory’, Stiles thinks.

It takes a little more than five hours, actually, to finish the county line and he’s feeling pretty wimpy by the time he ‘bumps’ back to his jeep again, but tosses the betas each a bottle of water and a granola bar before he disappears again, then ‘bumps’ himself along the inner Hale boundary and only just finishes up as the sun begins to set.  He’s exhausted though, much more than he’d thought he’d be and with a sigh, shoots Peter a text asking for a lift back to his jeep.  One more bump, he thinks, might just have him snoozing in the jeep for the night; or passed out in the woods right next to it.

It’s actually Derek that shows up, fancy Camaro and all, the passenger door swinging open in invitation.  “He was out getting everyone dinner,” Derek says.  “And I still had his phone.”

Stiles sighs, nods, and climbs in without complaint, muttering a few quick directions before he zones out, blinking heavily.

“Are you alright?” Derek asks after a moment. “You look like you just went ten rounds with the sandman.”

“Came out on top, though,” Stiles yawns back.  “S’just a big area to cover is all.  I’ll finish it up over the next few days.”

Derek nods without comment until he pulls up behind Stiles’ jeep.

“Ugh,” Stiles grunts, blinking woozily at his own license plate.  “That was quick.”

“That was twenty minutes,” Derek says with another frown.  “Are you alright to drive?”

Stiles would laugh (maybe still a little bitterly) at the concern in Derek’s eyes, but his own eyes are having a little trouble focusing.  “Good question.  Don’t suppose you could maybe play chauffeur to get me to Danny’s?”  Stiles, much as he’d love to go back to the campsite and his ley line, _really_ doesn’t want Derek knowing where he sleeps, for some reason, and he’s too tired to really think on what reason that might be.

Derek’s face scrunches up a little sourly for a second, then clears when he sighs.  “If you want, you can stay at the—“

“ _Stop,_ ” Stiles says softly, “ _talking_.” Stiles’ exhausted eyes narrow.  “I can’t sleep where I don’t feel safe.  And there’s only a fractionally better chance I could sleep feeling ‘safe’ at the pack loft than I could sleep feeling ‘safe’ at my father’s house.”

Derek pales a little and turns away, looking like he’s just been slapped.

“Just... forget it,” Stiles sighs, (somehow) shoving the door open, “y’should get back to your pack.”  Stiles slams the Camaro’s door a little resentfully, stumbles toward the jeep and shakily gets it unlocked.  He ignores the fluttering spots at the edge of his vision and shoves his backpack into the back seat and climbs into the front to just sit and breathe for a minute until his vision steadies a little.

Derek’s still there in his car, for some reason, and Stiles sighs with frustration and gets the jeep sluggishly back onto the road.  The Camaro’s lights behind him finally turn in a different direction entirely when Stiles turns onto the road that would take him back to Ito land.  When he “feels’ Derek far enough away, he turns the jeep around and heads back for camp.  He only barely gets his tent re-zipped behind him before he crashes into dreamless slumber.

*************

Stiles skips school the next day, without guilt, after he catches sight of himself the next morning in the campground’s bathroom mirror; he looks like someone’s _fantastically_ botched attempt at resurrection and decides to spend the day soaking up ley line vibes and ‘watching’ via his mental/magical map, people drive over and past the county line with a little amusement.  Someone on the far end of Ito pack territory keeps turning around again and again (probably lost), while another two cars seem to be drag racing the main southbound road from Beacon Hills that leads to the freeway.  Pretty stupid for late morning because he knows for a fact the sheriff’s department usually plants a speed trap or two there for morning rush hour and they occasionally decide to nap there afterward until something fast enough speeds by and sets off their radars.

He feels a little like a god, or something, from this ‘internal’ view, the giant map in his head like a picnic blanket covered with busy little ants rushing here and there.  He can even see Deaton’s faint little sprinkle of red at his clinic and Satomi at the tea shop.  He also sees, now that he’s looking closer, a few hints of red-ish power at the school and wonders if Danny’s energy spikes up that way.

Clearly not Danny, though, if Danny’s car, with both he and Kira inside, are pulling up behind Stiles’ jeep, wearing concerned faces a full two hours before school lets out.

“ _Wow._ I was gonna ask where you were today,” Kira says, “but yeah. Clearly there’s no need.  So should we bury you now?  Or wait ‘til _after_ your wake?”

Stiles snorts with a half-tired, half-stoned smile as he waves them over.  “I’ll live.  What’re you guys doing here?”

“Well,” Danny says, sprawling out next to Stiles where he’s star-fished out in the leaves, “when you didn’t return any of our texts or calls, we got worried that either you were dead, or your cell was.  Then literally half the staff got food poisoning somehow, so school let out earl- _whhhhhoooooaaaaa_ ,” Danny’s eyes drift half shut.  “Whaaaat _is_ that?”  Kira sprawls out head-first towards both of theirs and her own eyes go a little hazy.

“Leyyyyyyyyy liiiiiiiinnnnneeee,” Kira and Stiles sigh together.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Danny tells the sky with a dopey smile.  “Shit, how do you ever get anything _done_ like this? I’d never leave my room if this was under my bed.  This is like....”

“Mmmmmmagic-gasm,” Kira nods.  “Yup.  He’s got the _best_  line.  It even comes with it’s own tree.”

“Ohhhh, I see it,” Danny grins a woozy grin that slips slowly to a frown.  “Is it supposed to look like that?”

Stiles blinks back the magic haze and sees—

“Oh no. No. _Nononono...”_

He’s on his feet, a little dizzy, but still vertical and dashing toward his tree of awesome as fast as his ‘wading through heavy syrup’ feet can take him, Kira and Danny rushing along with him.

“Jesus,” Danny breathes out ten minutes later, covering his nose and backing away with his face scrunched up.  “What the hell?”

But Stiles _knows_ what the hell.  The stench of rotten vegetation isn’t just the melted, soupy mass that was his favorite tree but also the fetid sensation of dark magic.  Stiles can ‘feel’ the rotten vegetation this time, just like Lydia’d described it.

“The caster,” Stiles whispers, trying not to cry.  “ _Fuck._ Bastard cursed my tree.”

Kira leans into him worriedly and Danny gives his arm a gentle but comforting squeeze.  “Sorry, man.”  Danny’s frowny-face looks as heartbroken for the tree as it is for Stiles, like someone just killed a small cute something in his presence.  “It doesn’t feel completely dead, I don’t think,” he says after a moment.  “If we can clear off all the greasy black goo, I think it’ll still grow again.”

Stiles stares at him, then at the tree.  It’s not until he’s looking for the tree’s ‘aura’ that he sees it.  “Oh... shit. That’s not good.”

“What?” Kira asks, squinting at the mass, then her eyes widen.  “No... not good, if that’s the entity’s ‘ick’ all over it.  How the hell—“

“They’re working together, or... helping each other?” Stiles breathes out, swaying a little.  “How did I not even _feel_ this happen?  It was _fine_ yesterday morning!”

“Seriously?” Kira looks stunned, waving a hand at the chunky greenish sludge.  “All _this_  only took one day?”

“Doesn’t that mean the entity was here at some point over this last day?” Danny asks with a wigged-out look.  “Like _here_ -here?  A short walk _from your tent_ -here?”

“Crap,” Stiles mutters, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his face with both hands.  “It shouldn’t even be powerful enough to be top-side yet.”

“How do you know?” Danny asks, frowning even more.

“Had a dream.  It was cranky.  It took a swipe at me.”  Stiles pulls his t-shirt down a little and seeing the fading scratches there, both his friends suck in sharp breaths.  “But this was Saturday night and that pissy fucker was _weak.  Really_  weak.  Yesterday morning the tree was fine.  I made like, seventy sunlight grenades out here.  It was _fine_ ,” he finishes softly.

He knows, logically, that he shouldn’t mourn a tree.  It’s a _tree_ , after all, but this was _his_ tree and he was the tree’s, sort of.  And that this might actually be another casualty of the ‘by association’ train of thought Scott had planted in his head isn’t something he wants to think about.  He’s not sure he can ignore it though, either.

“Wait.  Seventy?!” Kira exclaims, looking at Stiles like— well, Stiles doesn’t know this look, so he shrugs his response.  “And then you went and did the county line?”  Stiles shrugs again.  “And I’m assuming finished off the inner Hale boundary line next, like you’d planned? “  Another shrug.  “You’re not actually wondering why you’re so tired now, are you?”  She’s biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No, no... I’m _well_  aware I overdid it, thanks.  It’s why I’ve been soaking up ley juice all the livelong day.”  He sighs at the reeking remains before him.  “Caster knows I’m onto them now, I think.  Why else would they strike this close?”

“They’re trying to throw you off your game?” Danny suggests.  “Like a psych-out tactic, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Stiles murmurs, nodding.  “Might backfire on ‘em though.  An unfounded, unexpected kick in the jewels would piss me off less than this.  This is fucking _personal_ ,” he seethes, still swaying a little.  “And will be a lot more so when I’m not dead on my feet,” he admits, yawning and turning back toward camp.

“Aren’t you worried about staying out here now?” Danny asks. “Maybe you should stay with one of us for a day or two?”

“No need, man,” Stiles insists, shaking his head.  “They were this close... and _didn’t_ get to me.”

“Couldn’t, you mean,” Kira says, nodding with a little smirk.  “Because your ash lines are titanium.”

“That good?” Danny asks, interested.  Stiles just sleepily grins at him a little cockily.

*************

Turns out Stiles’ ash line can defeat even a Guardian of Plants pro like Danny.  Kira snickered at his continued failed attempts using everything from rocks to firewood to branches to his own magicked rope.  Nothing broke through... until Stiles ran his own finger through it with ease, then reset it.

“Mountain ash was the first thing I ever did,” he admits to a flabbergasted Danny.  “I think that’s why I can, like, conjure it out of thin air, more or less.  Which was very useful, for crazy, loft-invading alphas.”

“ _So_ not fair,” Danny sighs.

“Oh!  Something else I did yesterday... I have gifts,” Stiles says around another yawn, then fumbles to his feet to dig through the jeep’s trunk and emerging a minute later with two small boxes, checking the weight for each and handing them over.

“Crystals?” Danny asks, looking perplexed.

“Holy shit, Stiles!” Kira’s eyes are pleased and wide.  “Protection crystals!”  She pulls the mass of them out, nine in all, and plucks one up to drape the attached silk cord over her head with a grin, then _shrieks_  like a girly-girl at the new unseen amulet hiding at the bottom, throws it over her head and vanishes while Stiles grins.

“Wait, for real?!” Danny asks, digging his own out of the box with a wide smile.  “Stiles, wha— HEY!” He practically yips when his car keys, in his pocket a minute ago, drop into his still-open box.  “No pranking each other!” He demands with a scowl, then throws his own amulet over his head and vanishes too.  

Snorting at their antics, Stiles follows suit, disappearing on the spot, and over the next ten minutes they’ve gotten damn near everything in camp in the wrong spots, the rain fly of the tent on upside down, Stiles’ jeep’s floor mats now covering his windshield and all the doors and windows in Danny’s car open, windshield wipers swishing dead leaves off the windows and trunk open wide — all with seemingly no one around.

Kira pops back into view first, giggling like a joyful little kid, Danny not far behind with a look of pure and proud _mischief_ in his eyes and Stiles last, though he’s just laying in the leaves again while he waited out their overflowing enthusiasm.

“So... “ Stiles says with a drowsy smile, “after I’m back up and running, you guys gonna help me prank the living hell out of the Hale pack?”

“ _Hell_ yes,” and “ _Hell_  yeah,” Danny and Kira say together.

”I’m starting with Jackson,” Danny says straight off, smirking.

“Okay, not that a little extra protection isn’t welcome,” Kira asks, dropping down beside Stiles again with her box, “but why nine crystals?”

“The human-ish members of your pack,” Stiles says.  “All the wolves have pretty good protection just being wolves, but you and your parents and—“

Kira flops over on top of him for a tiny full-body hug, clinging like a horizontal koala.  “Thank you,” she says sincerely with a tiny-Kira squeeze.

Danny drops down too, pulling a corded crystal over his head and peers at the remaining three.  “My parents and my brother?” He asks, smiling softly.  Stiles nods.

“I need you guys all safe, or as safe as you _can_ be, y’know?  You’re in it now and I’m not sorry for that, exactly, but if you guys ever want out, or n—“ Stiles’ words are cut off with Danny’s _lips_ and Stiles freezes, words totally gone because HUH?

“In other words,” Danny says with a grin, as he sits back up, “shut up, Stiles.  And thank you for the crystals.  It means a lot that you’re looking out for my family too.

“That was kinda hot,” Kira says absently, lips twitching.

“No it wasn’t,” Danny and Stiles tell her in stereo.

“No, no, it kinda was, actually,” she insists cheekily while she slides off Stiles’ chest to nuzzle into his side instead.  “And also like watching brothers kiss, so don’t do it again, _ew.”_

Stiles snorts at her, rolling his eyes.  “I doubt Ethan will let him,” he says with a lazy shrug.  “And yeah, kinda like kissing a brother, ew.”

“My lips are not ‘ew’,” Danny huffs with an eye roll.  “But it really was just to get your crazy talk to cease and desist.  Kira and I are in this, now, obviously.  And knowing what I know now, even when it’s freaky dangerous and scary as hell? I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.   _Really_ ,” Danny says seriously.

“Me either,” Kira nods, still tucked close to Stiles.

“I’m really glad you are, too,” Stiles admits, eyes blinking slowly and sleepily.  “I just worry a little, is all.”

“That’s because we’re practically family,” Danny says, dropping down to lay back in the grass and lets his eyes go ley line-hazy.  “You’ll always worry about family; everyone does.  But you can’t get rid of family.  And you can’t get rid of us.”

*************


	19. Who doesn’t like a good prank or two?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A memorable day:
> 
> A cozy-starting, amusing, entertaining, shocking, depressing, miserable, enlightening, self-comforting, exhausting, total _bitch_ of a day.

***********

Stiles feels like a glorious new person when he wakes the next morning.  He also feels like the semi-squashed meat in a Kira-Danny sandwich.  He cranes his neck, checks the time on his now-charged cell phone where it’s resting inside the tent pocket above his head and wriggles a little to see if either is awake enough to explain how he became an overnight teddy bear.

“You needed sleep; we needed to watch you sleep like the creepy, people-watching people we sometimes are,” Kira yawn-mutters, nuzzling softly into Stiles’ chest.  “Our moms were fine with a hair-braiding, pillow-fighting sleepover; we checked.”

“Okay,” Stiles sighs out, then drifts off again, grateful he hadn’t woken either of them with one of his (thankfully rare, now) screaming-awake nightmares.  This is a _much_ nicer way to wake.

Danny’s phone alarm is obnoxious (which is likely the point) and gets all three of them up and to school on time for zero hour with enough extra time for a quick stop through Starbucks on the way. 

Stiles’ mood takes an immediate plummet after zero hour though, in the form of Scott in the hallway, nose twitching and looking infuriated that someone (gasp!) dared smell enough like Stiles that they can only be (the horror!) _friends_.  Or so Stiles assumes, since he still has his amulet that keeps him from smelling much like anything but himself in permanent neutral, unless it’s malfunctioning. (Doesn’t feel like it is.) 

Danny seems to catch Scott’s look, narrows his eyes, and vanishes into the hallway crowd a second later, returns a quick minute after that and they all three grin with satisfaction when Scott yelps, having just tripped over his own tied-together laces.

“Let him glare about _that_ for a while,” Danny breathes out, looking positively _devilish_.  Kira snickers silently, because the hallway is still full of werewolves — Erica and Isaac already striding past in the opposite direction to investigate the source of Scott’s ire.

“This is going to be SO much fun,” Kira breathes and then breaks away, having spotted Lydia.

“Um... is Lydia part of our list?” Danny asks with a mild frown, dialing in his locker combo once they stop.  “I like Lydia.  We all like Lydia now, right?”

“It’ll be mild, I think, and only a few.” Stiles declares, hoping that Kira’s still listening.  It’s not like Lydia really _needs_ all those notes she writes in class, anyway; she practically has a photographic memory.  But Stiles hasn’t forgotten that first ‘non-versation’ in the library and Lydia’s flippant attitude, like somehow the painfully depressing parts of Stiles’ summer hadn’t happened at all, or something.  That’s worth one prank, at least.  “Besides, it’d look suspicious if she was left out entirely.”

“Like they’re not gonna figure out it’s us anyway?” Danny asks, shaking his head.

“Figuring and proving are two separate things,” Stiles says, eyes narrowing in on Jackson as he strides toward them.  “Be right back.”

Stiles goes unseen and steps away from Danny to really consider Jackson tip to toe: from his too-sculpted hair to his tailored beige slacks to his three hundred dollar loafers.  Hm... _Decisions, decisions._

“Danny!  Hey, I was looking for you yesterday,” Jackson says a little warily when he stops by Danny’s side, nose _very_ subtly twitching.  “Everything okay?”

Danny sighs, looking a little annoyed.  “Fine, Jackson.  Did you need something?”

Jackson’s clearly trying not to pout, shifting a little where he stands.  “Well, no, I just—“

“Look,” Danny cuts him off, closing his locker with a snap.  “I’m not ready for an ‘us’ conversation yet; I’ll let you know when I am.  And it’s _not_ today,” he says firmly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.  Jackson nods unhappily, then turns to go, slumping away while Danny just rolls his eyes and heads the opposite direction toward his first class. Stiles steps into place beside him and smiles innocently, even as Jackson yelp-growls behind them.

“Golly.  I’ve got no idea how that yellow-ink-tinted water ended up all over his crotch,” Stiles says quietly, peeking back over his shoulder.  “Better him than us, though, right?  That’d be _sooo_  embarrassing.”

Danny bites his lips to hold his snickers in until they’re half-way across the school, finally laugh-shoving Stiles at his own first hour as they stroll past.

 _Aww yeeeaah._ Today was going to be _great_.

***********

By the end of first hour, Erica had sticky purple gum in her hair (always a classic), an orange stain on her too-white, too-tight t-shirt, and her precious ( _ridiculous_ to wear when it’s still _eighty-four_  degrees outside) leather jacket (along with Boyd and Isaac’s) flapping away at the top of the flagpole outside. (Though Stiles did leave them just _under_ the American flag; prankster or no, he’s still a patriot.)

By the end of second hour, Jackson had lemon pudding _in_ his left shoe and his cellphone blaring out ‘Too Sexy’ at maximum volume with every call or text that came through (Danny ‘accidentally’ texted him twice), while all of Scott’s homework had somehow reversed itself backward on the pages, though his teacher was willing to accept it the next day so he could correct it.  Allison’s unfinished homework finished itself, though in screaming pink and yellow neon ink that the teacher wouldn’t accept at all, after squinting at it and demanded Allison redo it with a less obnoxious color.  (Allison had a bit of trouble there, as _all_  of her pens were now those same eyeball-assaulting shades.)

By the end of third period, Stiles’ cheeks were _aching_ from the amount of smiling he was doing because Isaac’s absurdly unnecessary scarf (and far more necessary shoes) now smelled heavily of mint extract that had all the pack’s (plus Aiden, Ethan, and Kira’s) eyes watering, Scott’s keys had landed in a urinal (Stiles had _nothin_ ’ to do with that one; a bathroom should be a safe place, as far as he’s concerned) and every high school pack’s phones had been reprogrammed to their most obnoxious settings and signed up for twice-hourly CatLOLz notifications that none of them could fix without the proper PIN number. (Lydia cracked hers in the first half hour, though, proving it _could_ be done.)

By lunch time at the end of fourth hour, every member of the pack in school, bar Lydia, was hunting down the trickster trio so they could all glare (and maybe growl) at them in person.  They mostly just glared (and possibly growled) at empty space, though, since Danny, Kira and Stiles all opted to have an unseen lunch out on the bleachers with Ethan and Aiden along for the ride.

“Seriously, no one can see us at all?” Aiden asks again, snagging another of Kira’s carrot sticks, then yelps when she zaps his finger. (Nevermind the numerous potato chips she’d sneakily stolen from him.)

“Nope, not even a little,” Stiles confirms with a mouth full of sandwich.  “Or, they do, but they don’t realize they do?  We’re not actually invisible.  Just ‘unseen’.  Tricks the brain into not realizing there’s sight or sound or scent even there.”

“Yeah, but Ethan and I aren’t wearing any magic anything,” Aiden points out.

“No need,” Stiles shrugs and takes another bite, but jiggles his foot where it’s resting against Aiden’s, and Danny nudges Ethan’s arm where it’s pressed to his own.  “And at least for me, I can sort of pick and choose who I want to be seen by, even if I’m not touching them.”

“That’s new,” Kira says, eyebrows popping up.

“I’m not so sure, actually,” Stiles shrugs, thinking.  “Deaton can pretty much always see me, I think.  Maybe because even in my subconscious, I don’t _mind_ him seeing.  He’s pretty much the only person over the early summer who could see me as something more than just ‘the former leech’ of the pack, rejected research monkey extraordinaire, or whatever.”

“I hate that all that crap happened to you,” Kira says, leaning into his arm.  “But I can’t help but wonder how we’d have ever have met if not for all that bullshit they put you through.”

“They had to have been insane,” Ethan says seriously, “to drop you like that.  Seriously, _no_ pack can function with any member wondering if they’re going to be the next to be kicked because of something stupid like that.  No healthy pack, anyway.”  Aiden nods along with his brother and they look kind of incensed on Stiles’ behalf, which is... weird.  Nice, but weird.

“Well, some of them are pretty keen to have him back _now_ ,” Danny mutters with a glower.

“Yeah, but probably only for the actual power I hold _now_ ,” Stiles sighs a little miserably.  “Without that, I doubt they’d put much effort into anything to do with me.  I can deal, mostly, with their sitting too close in class, even stalk them on their pack nights so they don’t get sick, but...” Stiles trails off, shoving the remains of his sandwich back into his bag, appetite gone.  “Doesn’t matter now, I guess—“

“Yes, it fucking _does_ ,” Kira snarls, eyes glowing a little.  “Temporary or not, you actually _died_  to keep Derek alive and that alone kept the rest of them from being the next entity-chow.  They owe you better than just using you like a sponge to soak up the bad mojo.  They owe you for a hell of a lot more than that, if you count all the warding you’ve been doing to keep everyone safe.”

Stiles blinks at her and she smiles the tiniest bit.  “Yeah,” she confirms, “I saw them at the shop.  And the house.  Grams and Mom both said to say thanks.  And I _know_ you - there’s no way you didn’t cover all the Hale pack’s family homes too.”

Stiles huffs, eyes rolling.  “I was happy to.  And the pack don’t even _know_ , I don’t think, that I’m even there being all sponge-y, when I am.  Unless it’s Lydia.  But she’s... unique.”

“I think she can maybe hear you, when you’re unseen,” Kira says, with a thoughtful look.  “Banshees are supposed to have crazy good hearing.”  Ethan and Aiden both nod.

“I don’t envy her, though,” Aiden says seriously.  “A banshee in _this_ area?  There’s been like... thirty something deaths so far counting the ‘sacrifices’?  That’s gotta be hell on her senses,” Aiden winces, looking like he can maybe hear the deaths too, then shakes himself out of it.  “Anyway.  If you ever need a few spare former alphas for backup, man, you know where to find us,” Aiden says with a head-nod to his nodding brother.

Stiles huffs, shaking his head.  “If you guys are safe-ish off the radar now?  I’m _not_ gonna pull you into it.  You’ve seriously already been through hell.  Twice,” he adds, with a pointed look.

“You’re not pulling us in if we’re deliberately standing there waiting to come in,” Ethan huffs with a half smile that fades a little.  “And whoever snagged Duke and Kali and Ennis?  Could probably still get us too, if they wanted.  And I’d rather go down fighting than go down waiting.”  Aiden nods firm agreement, rolling up his own lunch wrapper.

“Sorry man,” Danny says, sighing at Stiles.  “You’re just gonna have to deal with the fact that you’re going to have an army follow you into battle instead of walking in alone.”

“Who said anything about walking?  Why walk, when we can sneak?!” Stiles asks, flashing them a grin — and vanishes.

***********

By the time seventh hour officially began, the pack (lacrossers, at least) were, in a word, _fuming_.  Stiles can understand that, what with their P.E. clothes somehow bubblegum pink - including (somehow) their sneakers.  Both Danny and Kira are stone-faced and Stiles isn’t sure which of them did it.  (Stiles suspects it might be both, and is quietly impressed.)  He cocks an eyebrow at them and, in unison, they cock theirs right back which has them all three snickering quietly through warmups.

A short whistle blast has everyone on their feet and facing off a substitute teacher who looks harassed at even needing to _be_ on her feet for the three whole minutes it takes to _take_ roll call.  She hadn’t looked any better teaching Coach’s Econ class that morning, either.

“Alright!  To keep track of who’s who, when I call your name, get behind me please!”  It’s not a huge list, but as Erin Addams trots her way over, the teacher demands the girl give up her necklace, due to the very strict rules she’d been left with.  “Sorry, you’ll get it back right after class,” she insists with a frown, hand still held out.  Erin grumbles, but complies, looking unhappy being parted from her flashiest sweet sixteen present.  Roll call carries on that way until it’s Danny’s turn and he grudgingly (and nervously) hands over his amulet and protection stone.

Scott’s carefully _not_ watching the proceedings, but Stiles thinks the smirking look he’s somewhat hiding behind Jackson is a little mean and maybe vindictive.  And maybe premeditated?  Stiles very deliberately leaves all of his amulets and crystal over his shirt when his name’s called, but has willed them unseen to everyone _except_ Scott, who suddenly looks like he’s going to throw a pouty, foot-stomping tantrum right there on the track field when Stiles breezes by the sub without pause.

After joining a now-grumpy Danny, Stiles more or less _wishes_ for Danny to have his crystal and amulet back around his neck with no one but Kira, Stiles and Danny any the wiser, then ‘invisibles’ Kira’s too so neither of his besties will be without.  With all the crazy lately, Stiles doesn’t feel any of them should be without their crystals, at least, pretty much _ever_  now.  Isaac, at this point, looks like he’d like to sneak away from Scott (and his obvious attitude) entirely.  Boyd, though clearly unhappy with Stiles and company, has already walked away (looking kind of hilarious in bright pink shorts and t-shirt) from where Scott’s muttering to Jackson that he was _sure_ that would’ve worked.

“Give it up, Scott. You _need_ to let it go,” Isaac finally snaps to Scott and storms off (as much as someone in bubblegum pink can) after Boyd; Jackson just looks far more annoyed with Scott than usual.  Stiles would’ve bet that combo alone would get Scott to just drop it, but no... no, now Scott’s glaring at Stiles again, like it’s all _Stiles’_ fault that Isaac’s mad or that Scott’s getting some kind of a freaky obsession over all this — an obsession over  _Stiles_.

Stiles just rolls his eyes and tries to ignore him.  ‘Tries’ being the operative word.  But Stiles can still feel him glaring straight up to, and including, the end of the period and then into the locker room where Stiles finally vanishes and just stays unseen at Danny’s side until they all troop out to their cars.

Or, where their cars _should_  be.  Stiles’ jeep is right where he left it, as is Danny’s car.  Jackson, Isaac and Scott all seem to be without, though.  ‘Seem’ being another good word.  Stiles didn’t think it was quite worth the effort to actually _take_ them anywhere, but they’ll all be unseen until midnight, which he’s actually kind of proud of.  It’s not like they don’t have an alpha or an alpha’s uncle to call for a lift, after all.  (And Stiles had left Allison her car because you never know when a hunter might need their vehicle for a genuine emergency.) (It might smell a bit minty inside though.)

“Nicely done, Stiles,” Lydia says with genuine admiration.  “But I’m supposed to meet my dad at my house in an hour and Allison has an appointment of some kind.  Give a girl a lift?”

“I’ll take you,” Danny says, grinning amiably.  “I might owe you, at least, for your email issues.”

Lydia’s admiring smile drops like a lead weight and her eyes narrow to slits.  “ _What_ email issues?”

“Umm.... I’ll tell you on the drive over,” he says kindly, his cheeks going a little pink.

Kira and Stiles snicker a bit and bid them farewell, still so caught up with Danny _already_ getting chewed out as he drives Lydia out of the lot that Stiles doesn’t see Scott until he’s being pinned by him up against his jeep.  Stiles would now  _very_ much like to break _all_ werewolves _everywhere_ out of this terrible, awful, no-good, very bad habit.

“ _This. Needs. To. Stop_.” Scott snarls with his eyes glowing bright and furious gold and _(fucking hell)_ using _nearly all_ of his wolf strength to keep Stiles pinned there.  Not that it’s _hurting_ Stiles exactly (he might bruise a little, maybe), but Scott clearly _means_ for it to.

“Scott!!” Jackson’s racing forward from across the lot looking both panicked and pissed off, with both Isaac and Boyd on his heels but doesn’t get far when Kira, her hand on her sword/belt, stops them all short.

“Let Stiles handle it.” Kira snarls, shifting to the side when Isaac tries to edge around her. “Really, _I insist_.”

But Stiles only hears all of that, his own eyes still locked with Scott’s when he grips both Scott’s wrists and squeezes, then squeezes a little more until Scott’s eyes begin to flicker and fade and then widen with panic as he’s actively trying to release _Stiles_  — trying to get _away._ A heartbeat later, Stiles has Scott, with his feet nearly a full foot off the ground, pinned to the jeep instead while Stiles gives him his most serious expression; ie: mage-level-angry, ‘that just went too fucking far’, _dead-serious_ expression.

“You’re right, Scott,” Stiles tells him, voice deceptively quiet and calm.  “This does need to stop.  So let me tell you what happens now.  I’m going to let you go and you’re going to go back to your pack and remind them that I don’t do well with threats.  And if _you_ , Scott McCall, ever use your wolfy strength on someone who’s not actively trying to harm you, _ever_ again, myself included, I’ll be there three seconds after to _rip the wolf right the fuck out of you_.  And that’s not a threat so much as a fucking guarantee.”

Scott goes pale, shaking his head a little frantically.

“Yes, Scott.  Because if I was still purely human?  The effort you just used to pin me would’ve crushed my chest.  _You_ , Scott, would be a murderer.  Is that what you want?”  Scott shakes his head again, minutely, and looking vaguely sick.  “I didn’t think so, considering how I’m pretty sure Melissa would react.  But just as a reminder of what you have to lose?  Welcome back to humanity, Scott.  For the next twenty-four hours.”  Stiles’ eyes flare bright when he gives Scott one final shove into the jeep that rocks the entire thing over by a full inch, then all but _throws_ him at Isaac and Boyd. (Kira steps neatly out of the way.)  To Jackson, Stiles throws a brand new, fresh inhaler.  “Tell Derek how this _actually_ went down,” he instructs, and Jackson nods, looking both delighted someone finally kicked Scott’s wolfy ass and terrified he’ll be next.  Stiles waves a hand to Jackson’s car slot and the Porsche reappears, albeit tagged, in white grease paint, words of ‘Bow wow wow’ and ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ covering all the windows.  “And for his own sake, either keep Scott away from me or keep him on a goddamn leash.”

Neither Kira nor Stiles speak while they leave, and even then, Kira doesn’t smile until they’re well on the road leading back to her house, but when she does, it has them both smiling, then snickering, and then giggling.  Then Stiles has to pull over off the road entirely because the combination of ‘too fucking funny’ and ‘jesus I really lost my brother’ is just too much to drive through and he laughs, almost painfully, until he cries and then he just lets Kira hold him through the worst of it, because Scott’s _not_ Scott anymore.  The guy who still _feels_  like his own brother, as far as Stiles can tell, is well and truly _gone_.

***********

Peter listens to Scott’s complaints, wheezy though they are, for all of three minutes before he opts to ignore him entirely to spear Jackson with an inquisitive look instead.

“So, Jackson,” Peter says smoothly over Scott’s continued pouting _whine_.  “Would you mind telling us what  _actually_ happened?”  Jackson sighs, eyes shifting from Peter, who hopes he looks appropriately bored with Scott’s attitude to Derek, who looks incensed with everything again now that he’s without the blissful presence of his new lady love, then to Scott himself, who’s attempting to look threatening and falling woefully short, human-weak as he is.

“Stiles said the humanity is temporary,” Jackson supplies first, crossing his arms and glaring at Scott.  “And as far as I’m concerned, was a totally justifiable action after Scott damn near _pancaked_ him against his own ride.  Stiles said if he’d been fully human still, Scott, using all his ‘wolfy strength’, (Jackson scoffs at the wording) would’ve crushed his chest and killed him - making Scott a murderer.  Stiles said to tell the pack at large that he doesn’t respond well to threats and told Scott that if he ever hurt another person again using wolf strength without a damned good reason, Stiles would be there three seconds later to rip the wolf right out of him.”  Jackson glares at the floor for a second, but then meets Derek’s eyes.  “And he meant it.  Right then?  He meant every word, and I’m not sure he would’ve been wrong to, even today.”

Coming from Jackson, Peter knows, that makes it all the more serious.  Something may be very wrong with Scott if he’s behaving this way toward someone he’s only _ever_ been over-protective _of_ , before now.  It’s even a new moon, so Scott hasn’t even got _that_  as an excuse.

“Scott,” Derek says softly and dangerously enough that even Peter wants to cringe away.  “What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

Scott glares mutinously and says nothing.

Derek sighs, rubbing his hands over his face.  “ _Go home_ , Scott.”

Scott blinks with surprise, then glares even more, mouth opening to... probably spew more bullshit, as best as Peter can predict. (He’s been right about quite a lot lately.)

“ _Don’t_ , Scott,” Derek says softly, eyes angry and tinting their deepest red.  “I told you to stay away from him, not to retaliate against the jokes and pranks because we all know damn well it’ll be short-lived.  You didn’t listen.  _Go. Home_.”

“So, what? I’m in time out?” Scott demands, looking incredulous.

“Behave like a belligerent child, how can you expect not to get treated like one?” Peter asks, calmly. Calmly, because his nephew isn’t nearly as calm as he looks, though Scott obviously can’t tell.  “Jackson?  Take him home, please?”

Jackson, for once, doesn’t argue and grabs his backpack and Scott’s, hauling Scott to his feet and almost gently nudging him toward the door with Isaac nervously following on their heels.  The rest of the school betas had cleared out for the afternoon after a rather pointed text from Peter.  As soon as the door rolls shut after, Cora finally leaps gracefully down the stairs to glare at the door, eyes glowing steadily.

“ _Why_ is he still in the pack?  Is it only to help him keep control?  Because that doesn’t seem to be working out well,” she growls, eyes shifting to Derek, who’s still staring almost vacantly at the door.  “He could’ve killed Stiles.  _Today_.  And no matter what drove you all to exile him, Stiles?   _Is. Still. Pack._   And you _know_ it.  So why are you letting Scott take his temper out on him?  In what pack would that _ever_ be okay?”

Derek crosses the room to stare out the window, listening to the Porsche as it speeds away.

“Cora,” Peter slips himself in front of her, cutting off her view of Derek.  “It’s not alright, obviously, but let Derek do what he needs to.”

Cora grinds her teeth, then sucks in a few slow, calming breaths before letting her eyes fade and nods tightly.  “Fine,” she breathes out.  “But this can’t keep up.  I don’t know if _I_ can stay with a pack, even _ours_ , where this kind of shit is allowed.  And Mom, at least, would never expect me to,” she says quietly, eyes a little damp.  “I’m going for a run,” she adds and vanishes out the door and down the stairs.

Peter waits until the sound of Cora’s footsteps fade entirely before turning to Derek.

“She’s right about you needing to do something, Derek,” he advises quietly.

“ _I know_ ,” Derek sighs out, nodding.  “Tomorrow I’ll—“

“Derek?” Comes a voice drifting in through the still-open front door that has a smile blooming over both Derek and Peter’s faces.  “Hey there,” she smiles, slipping inside while Derek hurries forward to meet her with a kiss.

“Jen, hey.  I didn’t think you’d make it til later.”  Even from halfway across the room, it’s easy to see the hazy delight in Derek’s eyes.  Young love, Peter muses with a strangely happy sigh, is a sight to behold.  Even his own heart flutters a little, seeing them together.

“Miss Blake,” Peter drawls after Derek finally releases her lips, “how lovely to see you again.”

Jennifer’s beautiful eyes crinkle as she smiles over at him and not for the first time, Peter wishes she had a sister.  This trustful, peaceful sense about her — it’s the kind of trait that surely runs in families, isn’t it?

“Hello Peter,” she greets warmly, then looks around, interested.  “Where is everyone today?  Aren’t the kids usually here by now?”

“Oh, um...” Derek’s eyes darken with confusion for a second before clearing again.  “Cora went for a run and a few others escorted Scott back to his house; he wasn’t feeling well.”

“And the others, I believe, went for pizza,” Peter supplies, drifting toward the door, “as I believe I will, as well.  Pleasure to see you again, Miss Blake,” Peter smiles with a respectful nod, and pointedly rolls the front door closed behind him, trying _not_ to hear what happens after.  

Still, he rolls his eyes, jogging lightly down the stairs and wonders where the others actually _have_  gone for pizza.  By the time Peter steps outside, his smile has faded a little at the edges.  Weren’t he and Derek just speaking?  They were, he thinks, but it must not have been all that important if he’s forgotten already.  Besides, what could possibly be wrong when true love is in the air?

***********

Stiles works that night at the diner, though his mind may as well be on Mars; but it’s a good kind of vacancy from the beyond-off-kilter reality of his school day, amusing and depressing as it was.  But of course, it’s Stiles’ life and it just keeps throwing him curveballs.  It’s a lesser blow, though, because he’d known this one would come eventually.

“I’m _really_ sorry, Stiles, we just don’t really have enough business these days to be able to afford you right now.”  Mary looks genuinely upset (she’s even wringing her hands) and Ed the cook looks equally unhappy, even though he’s basically taking up dish duty himself since he only has to cook the occasional, actual meal these days.  “I can call you again when business picks back up, but for now...”

Stiles nods a little glumly.  “It’s okay, Mary,” he says anyway.  She pays him for his shift in cash, since it’d be the only shift on his next actual paycheck and he steps back out into the night, wondering what to do with himself now.

***********

“So we’re looking for connections?” Stiles asks, suddenly standing in the middle of the Sheriff’s (currently Jordan Parrish’s) office where he _definitely_  hadn’t been five seconds ago.

Jordan takes the time to (admittedly) gawp at him.

“Where’d you come from?” He finally demands while his heart re-settles a little.  Even popping in from nowhere at all, Stiles doesn’t _worry_ Jordan.  Confuses him, maybe; but doesn’t worry him.  

Only half of that, Jordan thinks, is Melissa’s continued and unwavering faith in him, but the rest is just a deep-set knowledge that this kid’s important, somehow.  Lydia Martin seems to agree and she’s easily one of the most down-to-earth people Jordan’s ever met, even at only sixteen.  Stiles genuinely seems (for no explicable reason) the most likely to finally sort out all the weirdness that’s settled into their town.

“From out and about,” Stiles tells him, shrugging lightly and looking... a little unhappy, maybe.

Jordan huffs, but shakes it off and (somewhat warily) hands Stiles a short stack of folders from the large heap on the desk.  “The first three victims, from the park,” he explains.  “I’ve checked all the standard angles for connections, but I’m assuming there’s maybe something else that might be... ‘wierd’-different?  That we could be looking for?”  Stiles nods, lips thin, then collapses back onto the small sofa behind him and settles in, shoulders and butt wriggling into the cushions, like it’s habit.  

It takes Jordan a minute to remember who’s office this _usually_ is and realize that for Stiles, it likely _is_ habit.  And... well, _crap_.  They’re both here now; he may as well make the most of it.

Jordan swallows nervously, clears his throat, then heaves in a slow, fortifying breath.

“Melissa already told me,” Stiles says evenly, though quietly, not looking up from flipping through pages in the topmost folder.  He chews on his lower inner lip for a second before he speaks again.  “Is he taking any time off?  Or is he coming straight back to work?”

Jordan blows out a breath, grateful (to God, Melissa and the universe at large) that he himself didn’t have to drop the ‘likely an abusive drunk of a dad returning from rehab’ bomb.

“Two days off,” Jordan tells him bluntly, like Stiles had asked him to, “partnered with me afterward... if that sounds alright?”

Stiles blinks up at him with eyes far too old for a mere eighteen years, frowns at the air for a second, then nods briskly and returns half his attention to the file.  “And his pills for those two days?” He asks, a little quieter.

“Also me.  I’ll be camping out on your sofa.”

“ _His_ sofa,” Stiles corrects, voice a little rough.  “I’ll consider moving back when he’s been sober for a year.  I’ve told him as much already.”

Jordan nods understandingly (though how can _anyone_ really understand _that_?), pulling his own stack of files closer.

For an hour, there’s an easy almost-silence of the dry flipping of paper and the slightly stickier dry sound of photographs being sorted through.

“Healers,” Stiles mumbles, staring at the floor where all three files are scattered in a jumble of possibly-organized chaos.  “The first woman — the nun?  She used to be a psychologist, the second was a pediatrician in the ER.”

“The third?” Jordan asks, mentally flitting through the file.  “Worked at an animal rescue?”

“Yeah, as an on-site veterinarian,” Stiles says, sinking back into the sofa cushions with a frown.

Jordan peers over the desk to where Stiles has the files spread wide over the floor.  “Okay, healers,” he agrees.  “That mean something to you?” He’s still unsure of how Stiles’ psychic/magic/invisible/possibly teleporting abilities even work.  

Chris Argent had been a little vague on the subject of Stiles, though he’d been almost _too_ informative on the subjects of, well... everything else.  Definitely too informative, in fact.  Jordan hadn’t slept at all that first night, though better on the nights after that, having taken Melissa’s advice and just worn Stiles’ little crystal on a necklace for bed.  He hasn’t felt the need to take it off since.

Stiles shakes his head with his eyebrows furrowed, but looks more like he’s trying to jostle something forgotten free of his memory.  “I dunno.  Yet.”  He flicks a hand over the floor and a few blurring seconds later, all three of the file’s pages have shuffled themselves back into their original order, neat as you please.

Stiles blushes a little when he sees Jordan still hovering over the edge of the desk, amazed.  “Saves time,” he mumbles with a light one-shoulder shrug.

Jordan huffs, smiling and shaking his own head, but holds out another stack of files.  “Second time’s a charm?”

***********

Stiles can’t sleep with this much ‘everything’ still rattling around in his head.  ‘Everything’ now including murder photos that he would pay a great deal to brain-bleach out of his own mind.  But even the photos had felt off/wrong/evil and he’d look for a magical solution to cleansing whatever the hell those deaths had done, but isn’t sure what _his_ magic would do when confronted with the dark power those deaths had generated.  Somehow he doubts it’ll be as simple as draining crazy alpha powers.

He walks, unseen but cautious, through Beacon Hills.  He drifts past Scott and Melissa’s house, feels them both safely sleeping inside and maybe Isaac’s energy in there too?  Three safe, then; he walks on.  

Cora, for some odd reason, is safely tucked into Lydia’s house with she and Jackson, though in a guest room, feels like.  Lydia’s mom is in there too, though dozing in front of the tv.  Stiles shrugs off Cora’s unusual presence and moves on; to each their own.  Maybe Derek or Peter snore.

Stiles is a little baffled to find Peter (who Stiles has decided is probably just too _dignified_ to snore) with the Argents in their apartment and Stiles’ mental feelers have Peter on the couch.  Weird, but whatever... that’s another three safe.

Danny’s minus any pack (or Kira) in his own house, but there’s a small gathering of owls, interestingly, silent and watchful in the large oak tree that covers nearly all of Danny’s back yard.  Stiles smiles a little at the Harry Potter-ness of it all and nods respectfully in their direction (and swears at least one of them, maybe, _nods back_ ).  He huffs a slightly wider smile and finds himself at Erica’s next, being a total creepy-creeper and peeking in her window to see Erica and Boyd both somehow fit on her tiny bed.  Boyd’s nearly falling off the edge, though, because Erica’s evidentially a total bed hog.  But they’re safe, and Stiles walks on.

Derek is _not_ safe; nor is he in immediate danger.  But Derek is home, Stiles knows, because he can _feel_ him up there in all of Dere’s alpha-ness, but he’s again not alone and Stiles doesn’t like it one bit. (He won’t let himself ruminate on all the _reasons_ why he doesn’t like it, because it’s already been a total bitch of a day.)

Upside: at least there’s no suspicious noises here tonight.  But, since it’s so quiet and peaceful, he finishes off the protections he’d started the other night and only hears someone moving around up there just as he’s finishing up.  He slips away unseen and walks on.  

Even if Derek somehow caught him in the act, Stiles doubts he’d complain about extra safety surrounding the place his family usually sleeps, too.  But even as Stiles walks quickly back to the station and his jeep, he knows Derek’s not even a little bit safe and it bothers Stiles that he doesn’t know exactly _why_.

Stiles only gets three hours of sleep that night when he finally gets back to camp, and while his nightmares aren’t as bad as they used to be, they’re not mild, either.  None of his sleep feels even a little bit restful.

***********


	20. The Succubus might be the best part of his week.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the chapter title reads.
> 
> Also, this Succubus portion is dedicated to all the sassy Queens I’ve met and the few that I’ll never forget.
> 
>  
> 
> **End notes for this character specifically. ;) **

***********

Scott refuses to look at Stiles at all the day after that awful shitshow in the parking lot, even after his laces end up in individual knots, somehow (Kira, Stiles thinks) and goes back to his summer-time habit of pretending Stiles doesn’t exist.  Even with all that’s passed between them, Stiles is more than a little hurt by the gesture and goes his own one step further, conjuring a new amulet (in the midst of a sudden internal cold snap) that’ll keep Stiles unseen, unscented, and unheard by Scott, individually, pretty much permanently.  It’ll save Scott some useless glowering/glaring time, save Stiles some frosty cold moments of sheer misery (he hopes), and also hopefully get everyone else back to their relatively mellow ‘we have to share a school, we may as well be civil’ vibe they’d all more or less had since the start of the year.

It works pretty well, for all of three days.  Then Scott attempts a new campaign of trying to talk Danny and Kira out of whatever ‘Stiles is making them do’.  That, to Stiles’ somewhat-amusement, has both his besties laughing themselves to literal tears, (not to mention Lydia in the row just behind them biting her cheek to keep herself from joining in,) and Scott stomping off in a huff.  The part of Stiles that isn’t amused, though, feels like it’s breaking a little (a lot) that Scott would try to take the only friends Stiles has, along with all his other crazy demands.  It’s not like Stiles has gone out of his way to spend any extra time with the pack, or Melissa, or even Alan; it’s what Scott had wanted, right?  Stiles is a little lost on why Scott would even try, really.  Is it really that hard sharing a school or a life with someone you never even need to see again?

But it’s maybe not just a ‘Stiles’ problem at all, since he sees that even the pack are all giving Scott either annoyed, pitying, or worried looks (though mostly annoyed) and Scott himself is beginning to look a little ill and exhausted.  Stiles can’t not do something about it, so he uses his only semi-free Thursday afternoon to trail Scott to work, giving Alan a ‘shhhh’ kind of signal to let him know ‘Stiles isn’t here’.  It takes a few hours of Stiles trailing Scott from room to room for Scott to start looking and acting (somewhat) like Scott again and Alan gives Stiles a pointed ‘shoo’ out the door when Scott heads out to dump the trash.  Stiles doesn’t stay to eavesdrop, but does wonder what kind of advice Alan (or anyone) can give to someone as boneheadedly stubborn as Scott seems to be these days.

Stiles wanders out, feeling depressed all over again, to place a few more city markers before dusk, and is now weirdly grateful he’s down to only one job these days, with all the magic-work he’s been cramming into every day and half his nights.  The entity, though it may be ‘healed’ enough to travel, hasn’t munched on anyone since it apparently gobbled Stiles’ tree. Stiles would like to be more worried about that, but the reprieve gives him time to finally finish up more of the warning markers; he _knows_ it’s only a matter of time until they’ll be needed.

He gets most of the Beacon Hills suburbs covered in a mere three hours and notes the occasional passerby who spies one of them hidden on trees and under thick bushes and either smiles with something that looks like relief, or rushes off in the other direction like they’d just seen their own name on a hit list.  Stiles doesn’t bother chasing after them.  It’ll sort itself out in time, he thinks.

The pack has another movie night set for tonight and Stiles finds himself faltering on the way into the theater when he sees the whole lot of them standing cheerfully in the concession line and chatting with none other than their own Miss Blake, who’s overall sense of ‘off’ has somehow been replaced with ‘ _awwww_ ’.  To be fair, she and Derek look sickeningly good together, tall and beautiful and smiling at each other with hearts and stars practically dancing in their eyes. Stiles feels a little ill, unexpectedly.  He steals Isaac’s soda (but leaves five bucks in it’s place for a new one) and parks himself at the very back of the theater, only just close enough to send them all as many ‘be well’ vibes as he can stand to before the credits roll.  But he’s up and halfway out the door before any of the pack are even out of their seats.

***********

Three more bodies are found Saturday morning at the very edge of Hale territory, almost exactly where Stiles and Peter had parked out there only six days before.  It’s the location itself that worries Stiles the most and Stiles (seen or unseen) can no longer get anywhere near the crime scene since it’s his dad, looking healthy and whole (and blissfully sneering-shadow-free) who’s clearly running the investigation, Parrish taking notes at his side and looking like the perfect sidekick trainee.  Stiles cranks up his super ears enough to tell they’re actually taking more pointed notes on what questions to ask ‘the experts’ once they’d (officially) called it a night.  Stiles slips quietly away, wondering who ‘the experts’ are and whether or not he’ll get a call of his own.

Stiles texts all the other ‘experts’ he knows, just to keep everyone on the same page and both Alan and Chris promise to look into it.  Lydia is upset, once again, that she hadn’t felt the deaths but promises to keep him as in the loop as she can.  Derek doesn’t respond to Stiles’ text at all, though Stiles hadn’t exactly expected him to and Stiles makes his meandering, ‘bumping’, way through the huge preserve patch of woods on his way up to the tea shop to meet Kira and Danny for lunch, setting a long strip of markers along the way.  He ‘disappears’ his bag and it’s contents back to his jeep before he steps in to meet them.

“You _need_ to slow down,” Kira says after he stumbles into the shop, belatedly a little dizzy on his feet.  “Really, you only have so much energy to burn, Stiles.”  She looks genuinely worried and Stiles can only sigh and tell her about the newest bodies fueling his newest ‘need to make cave safe, ugh’ caveman mage-ish instinct that came with the discovery.  And about his dad, in living color, out and about where Stiles might now run into him at any time.

“I’m glad he’s better?  But I know this is just gonna make me paranoid that I’ll just walk around any ol’ corner and _there he’ll be._ ”  It’s a fair possibility that he tries not to dwell on while he parks himself at a tiny tea table with Danny, who hands him a large ‘mom-made’ sandwich that Stiles thanks him for, then manages to gobble down in less than three minutes.  Danny looks a little disturbed by the site while Kira looks a little impressed.  “Guess I’m just hungry?” He asks, feeling his cheeks pink up.

“When did you last eat?” Kira asks suspiciously.  That Stiles actually has to _think_ about it has her rolling her eyes with exasperation.  “Really?  Magic, as you’re already feeling, takes it’s toll _physically_ , too.  If you keep your body better fueled, you won’t magically exhaust yourself nearly as quick.  And,” she says, generously (for Kira) dropping the second half of her own sandwich in front of him, “you’ll hopefully stop looking like a scarecrow.”  Stiles lifts his wrist with a frown.  He’s thin, again, he sees.  Very thin.  

Well, _shit._

“Oh.”  Stiles tackles her offered food with relish.  Danny rolls his eyes with a slightly concerned huff and munches quietly on his own, still reading the newest edition of Modern Pagan Uses of Herbs and Oils (heavily edited by both Alan and Stiles himself).

“‘Oh,’ he says,” Kira grumbles, though fondly.  “Finish up,” she instructs Danny.  “This guy needs some fattening ice cream, STAT.”

***********

They go to the only place in the county worth driving forty minutes for, for ice cream - Ice Cream Queens that’s actually owned and run by one of the more flamboyant ladies that frequent Jungle.  It’s usually a great atmosphere with danceable music and plenty of laughs.  Stiles is sorry they made the journey two seconds into the door.

“This... might be my version of hell,” Stiles mutters, hoping (in hindsight) only Kira and Danny heard him.  They seem to be the only ones, despite Derek sitting right there in the middle of the ice cream parlor, his arm casually thrown over the back of his girlfriend’s chair where he’s playing a little with her long, lovely hair.  Miss Blake is smiling sweetly up at him over the actual ice cream soda they’re both holding and sharing with a straw each, her free hand tracing up and down his thigh a little.  They look sickeningly happy together and Stiles wants to kick them both in the shins, like a crabby toddler.

“You gonna let ‘creepy teacher’ keep you from the deliciousness you deserve?” Kira asks quietly, eyes narrowing at him in challenge.

Well, when she puts it that way?   _Fuck no._   

Stiles strides confidently up to the counter with his head high, Danny and Kira marching along behind him.  That’s the easy part.  Not shuddering with revulsion at the ‘off’ vibe that’s coming off Miss Blake in _waves_ is what has him faltering as soon as he reaches the counter.  He frowns over his shoulder at the pair, because something’s... different.  He just can’t figure out _what_.  Derek still hasn’t looked away from her, even to nod a terse greeting and that by itself is strange.

Even after Stiles orders his triple-scoop, double-waffle cone in a slightly too-loud voice, Derek doesn’t even twitch an _ear_  Stiles’ way.  But then, Miss Blake seems equally oblivious.  Maybe the only strange thing is that it’s Derek and his girlfriend and not Scott and his girl/boyfriend combo.  Could this actually be what in-love _looks_ like?

Stiles pays for all three of them and parks himself at the back booth to stare/glare rudely at the pair up front, Danny and Kira joining him and both looking at him a little oddly.  He takes them both unseen as soon as they sit down.

“Something’s off,” he says, then chomps into his double-chocolate top scoop and winces through the brain freeze.

“Or...” Kira says, delicately.

“Or nothing.  He’s not seeing, hearing, or smelling _any_ of us.  Which is ‘off’,” Stiles insists, laser-focused in on the other pair with narrowed eyes.  From the corner of Stiles’ eye, he can see Kira and Danny shrug at each other, looking uncomfortable.  Stiles sighs a little impatiently.  How, exactly can he prove it?  He squints their auras into view and _weeeeeird_.  “Look at their auras,” he breathes out quietly.  Quietly, because Stiles thinks maybe Miss Blake, with an aura that _almost_  verges on banshee-like, can maybe hear them, even unseen.

Danny’s frown now matches Stiles’ (he’d finally mastered auras two days ago) and he kicks up confused eyebrows at Stiles.  He doesn’t get it either.  Kira’s frowning now too, her lip caught between her teeth as she sorts through the muddled layers of their collective auras, but in the end shakes her own head.  She’s just as baffled as Stiles and Danny, now.

What sets it for Stiles is when the next customer enters, orders, then exits, a stray gust of wind through the door on the dude’s way out has the air rippling a little toward the counter, flutters past a loose stack of napkins and blows the topmost one fluttering two feet further, half onto one of the little scented t-lights next to the register.  The resulting fire is tiny, a bit of a flash-burn almost, that has RayRay behind the counter squawking with alarm and Derek _still_  doesn’t twitch, even with a heavy dose of ‘burned paper’ in the air and _now_ Stiles has reason to freak out.  There’s no way that Derek, in his right mind, would miss a _fire_ of _any_ kind.

RayRay’s got it handled in a snap, waving the damp dishtowel she’d slapped the fire out with through the puff of smoke still lingering over the register; when it drifts past Derek, he _still_ doesn’t react.  But Stiles thinks Miss Blake might twitch, just a little.  Maybe.

Stiles pretty much wigs out, internally, for all of three seconds.  Then, knowing it’ll almost definitely bite him in the ass later, takes that image of ‘flash fire’ at the register and shoves it down his connection to Derek before hiding the bond away again so Derek (hopefully) can’t somehow trace it back to one of the three empty seats ten feet behind him.  But it works, obviously, so Stiles won’t complain, even if Derek _does_ catch him.

Derek’s on his feet in a blink, knocking past Miss Blake and spilling the remains of their shared drink all down her dainty cardigan and onto her flowing skirt. (Stiles might feel worse for the skirt than it’s owner, really.) But Derek’s at the counter now, looking all concerned and checking on RayRay, who knows him well enough to pat his cheek with her bejeweled, meaty hand and assure him she’s ‘fahhn, sugah’.  But Derek ignores Miss Blake entirely until all the soggy soot has been wiped away and the remaining napkins placed elsewhere.

“I should go,” Miss Blake huffs, annoyed, and grabs up her somewhat soda-spattered purse from the floor.  “Bye Derek,” she snaps, then strides off without waiting for his response which has him dashing out after her seconds later, looking a little lost.  Stiles might smirk a little meanly at Miss Blake and frown a little worriedly at Derek as they both depart.

RayRay comes sauntering out from behind the counter with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, muttering to herself as she cleans up the bit of mess, but finally sighs, hand on her wide hip and turns to their ‘not-quite-empty’ table.  “Thank you, dahlin’,relly.  I juz caynnot _stayan_ ’ dat woman in my sto’.”  Danny chokes on his mouth full of strawberry dip, but Kira’s snickering a little when Stiles lets them all be seen again.

“How?” Stiles asks with a surprised smile.  RayRay’s got good vibes and always has, so he’s mostly just... shocked?  A little?  He hadn’t noticed her aura at all (hidden behind the counter) when he’d been checking over Derek and Miss Blake’s.

“You ain’ neva’ seen a succubus befo’?” She asks sweeping her hand from her outrageous silver ringlets down over her extra-curvy curves and down to her fashionable extra-wide silver stilettos.  Beyond that, her aura is just as sparkly.  And somehow _sensual._

“Well.... no.  But I’m new at this,” Stiles admits, smiling.  “I’ve seen you at Jungle though, haven’t I?”

“Cous’ you have, suga’!  Just walkin’ by outsigh’ like a five cous’ buffet for guhls li’e me,” she says with a sassy, extra-long sparkly-pink-lashed wink as she breezes back behind the counter.  Kira smiles, clearly entertained and Danny looks kind of thoughtful, head tilted a bit.

“She in here often?” Danny asks with a head-nod to the front door, joining RayRay up at the counter, Kira and Stiles slipping onto the barstools beside him.

“Too offen’,” RayRay huffs.  “An sets _ever’un_ on edge.  ‘Cept dat wolf-boy went runnin afta’ hu’.  Now it’s awll’ _luuuuuv_ in d’air.  Cept fo’ the luv pawt.  Whuteva’ ‘twee them?  Ain’ _luuuuvv_ kinda magic, I teh you _dat._ ”  RayRay huffs again, glowering out the front window, like she’d just like to see ‘dat woman’ try to creep back in when RayRay’s already in a mood.

“Not love,” Danny murmurs.  “Something darker?”  RayRay nods, arms crossed.

“I ain’ sayin nuttin’ mo’, but you won’ hea’ me complain if’n som’n hap’ns a drop a piana’ on dat woman’s head,” she says airily, eyes shifting to Stiles and away.  

“Not sure I’m up to pianos,” Stiles admits, a little wistfully.  “How ‘bout an anvil?”  He’s only half joking, because who better than a _succubus_  who’s power lies in detecting someone’s true desire would know when a love-like kind of mojo is being used for ill?  That’s someone could be using it on _Derek_?  Or _anyone_ from the pack?  _Hells no._   Starting now, Stiles is all over _this_ fucker of a problem.

RayRay barks out a laugh and smiles.  “Get rid dat woman, sugah’?  Ya’ll ge’ a free scoop he’h any ol’ tahm.”

***********

“Well... that was....” Kira falters both her words and the remains of her double-scoop at once, juggling it a little when it starts to drip off the edge toward her hand.  Danny rescues it with a quick swipe of the napkins he’d wisely grabbed on their way out.

“Educational?” Danny suggests, still smiling.  “I’ve always liked her,” he admits.

“So it’s not just us that thinks Miss Blake’s.... ‘off’, either” Stiles says, chomping into the gooey second scoop of pineapple-chill.  He thinks he might be the only person who eats this one; the bucket in the cold case is always at the same level when he goes in.

“Definitely not,” Danny agrees, frowning.  “That took guts, I think, for a succubus to ‘come out’ to you.  Don’t they have a kind of.... I dunno.  Bad reputation?”

“Oh yeah,” Kira confirms, nodding seriously.  “A lot of packs won’t tolerate one even being near their town, let alone in their territory.  Though I imagine Jungle’s the perfect place for one.  Just walking by gives some people a naughty little thrill.”  She’s got a sparkle in her eye that says she’s one of those people.  Stiles and Danny both roll their eyes at her.  “Really, though.  Miss Blake must _really_  rub people the wrong way for a succubus to speak up,” she tells them.  “Which means...”

“Unseen stalking time?” Danny suggests, grinning devilishly. Stiles thinks he might be enjoying his amulet a little _too_ much, maybe.

“Maybe,” Stiles concedes.  “Let’s check the map first, though.”

Kira and Danny frown at him.  “What map?”

***********

They do check the map.  The map, sadly, is super unhelpful at finding ‘Jennifer Blake’, though both Kira and Danny get a kick out of watching the tiny dots wriggling around all over it, like it’s an oversized Marauder’s Map of Hogwarts, Hogsmede, the Forbidden Forest, and maybe Diagon Alley, too.  Sadly, his doesn’t come with handy little labels.  Yet.  Maybe.

“How _did_ you even??” Kira breathes out with amazement, pulling up Stiles’ sitting log to watch all the tiny ant-like action where Stiles has taped it up on the jeep again.

“County markers, mostly.  It’s less accurate in the spots I don’t have markers in, yet, but I’m getting there.”  The map says as much, little silver glowing spots that covered the Beacon Hills, Trails, and Valley suburbs he’d already tagged, plus the bits of woods surrounding the other places he happens to pass by regularly, and the city blocks surrounding the bar, diner, vet clinic, and hospital.  Stiles won’t wait long for the school markers, now.

“God, Stiles... no wonder you’re always so tired now,” Kira remarks, looking a little worried.  “You _can’t_ keep up at this pace forever.  Mage or no, your body _will_ give out.”

“I know,” he nods solemnly.  “But it won’t until after we’ve kicked the entity and the caster’s asses.  That much I’m sure of.”

“Seeing the future now?” Danny asks wryly.

Stiles sighs.  “No.  But just about everything in this town happens for a reason.  What are the chances the only gust of wind on a hot, windless day like today just happens to blow a napkin onto a candle that gave me the _best_ possible way to snap Derek out of the bad mojo zone?  I’m not saying everything will turn out peaches and cream, but I think our chances are better than they were a month ago, even if the entity is bigger and meaner and the caster more murder-y.”

“Is there anything we _can_ help with, at least?” Danny asks, looking a little desperate.  “There has to be something.”

Stiles sighs, shrugging, then pauses.  “You specifically?  Yes.  Jennifer Blake.”

“Stalk her?” Danny asks, looking pleased.

“No, yeesh.  Not yet, at least.  I meant your other magic skills.  As in, who is she, really?”

Danny wilts, but only fractionally, then nods, looking determined.  “I’m on it.  How many years should I look back to?”

Stiles shrugs, biting his lip a little, then tries the ‘finder’ spell again.  Then, internally grumbling a little, ‘finds’ Derek, walking alone a block from the loft.  “If I’m not finding ‘Jennifer Blake’ this way?” Stiles says, waving to the map, “then I think we can safely assume she’s _not_ Jennifer Blake.”

“Just how good a hacker are you?” Kira demands a little suspiciously, a funny eyebrow lifted at Danny.

Once upon a time, Stiles thinks, Danny was a somewhat humble kinda guy.  It was nice while it lasted.

“Well, lightning might be your bitch and mountain ash is Stiles’.  The internet’s mine,” Danny confirms.

“... Okay then,” Kira says with a nod, then smiles at Stiles.  “Are we allowed to prank her at least?”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says firmly.  “On the extreme off chance she’s more powerful than she looked today, none of us should be on her radar as anything more than eleventh grade misfits.”  He gives the map a considering look, sees all three of them, tiny and glowing, in the kidney-shaped campground.  “But I’ll check this again when we’re back at school.  If she’s got any major mojo of her own, she’ll light right up, too.”

***********

Sunday is uneventful and mostly magic-free, for Stiles.  Largely because he works a shift and a half at the bar, since the other dishwasher had packed up and left, his nightmares evidentially gotten bad enough he could only stutter out an explanation to Dan when he came to get his last check.  While Stiles’ nightmares haven’t beenn a huge issue lately, it seems that everyone else’s have gotten three times worse.  Stiles infuses all the beers again with mojo juice and more than a few customers leave looking better than they arrived.  Stiles quietly hopes he’s not helping any of them develop an addiction.

***********

But he leaves for the night with _that_  dismal thought in mind and seriously wonders about his dad, for the first time in a while.  He’d looked alright Saturday morning, but...  If his dad’s already gone for the day, maybe Stiles can pop in and check with Parrish, at least to get the 411 on the newest bodies.  (And his Dad’s overall health.)

Alas, his dad _is_  still in the station, along with Parrish, looking a little more worn than he had at a crime scene, and Stiles swallows nervously.  His dad needs a boost already. _Fuck_.

 _Bitethebulletbitethebulletbitethebullet_.

Stiles bites the bullet, goes unseen and slips cautiously inside.  Up close, his dad has lost some of the extra pudge ‘round the middle and put on a little muscle.  Stiles knew the rehab center encouraged exercise, but for a little more than a month away, outside the evil splash zone, he seriously looks like a new man.  Just... a tired new man.

Parrish has his own little desk in the corner of the office now, wedged between the wall and the small sofa that has just enough surface space for two open files, a cup of bad cop coffee and a small lamp.  Stiles had spent so much time just gazing at his dad and trying to sort through the crazy mix of his own emotions (and trying not to freeze up inside), he’d sort of forgotten Parrish was even there until he speaks.

“He’s probably still awake,” Parrish says, quietly, his eyes still on his files.  “We could text him.”

The sheriff sighs.  “No,” he says quietly, but firmly.  “Just because he can handle the extra weight of all this... doesn’t mean he should.”

Neither says anything for a few minutes more before Parrish anxiously taps his pencil on his file for a long minute, then heaves in a telling breath.  The sheriff beats him to the punch, just like Stiles himself had.

“Not yet, at least, Jordan.  He’s only eighteen; let’s give it a bit longer before we drag him into it.  Alright?”  The sheriff’s talking to the back of Parrish’s head, but Parrish can clearly feel it and just nods.

Parrish, isn’t looking all that great either, but then, it’s almost midnight.  Still, through his building chill, Stiles conjures up a few bottles of mojo juice from the duffel in the jeep down the block and steals Jordan’s spare pencil to write a quick note on the edge of the file.

* _One for you, two for him.  Bad cop coffee might be a good chaser.  If you need a consult, you text, if he won’t.  —S*_

Stiles leaves the three bottles in the tiny spot left on Parrish’s desk next to the lamp and ‘bumps’ himself back to the jeep and hopes that little bit of time was enough to help them both.

***********

“I’ll be damned,” Jordan huffs a minute later, spying the little bottles first, then the note.

“Find something?” The Sheriff asks, sounding slightly more alert.

“Well... in a manner of speaking?”  Jordan swivels around in his chair with the bottles and the file, note included.  “Pretty sure he was just here.”

The Sheriff drops his pen, suddenly tense, eyes swinging around with a hopeful look, then wilts a little before reading the note at the file’s edge with a sigh and winces.

“Please don’t.  Text, that is.  Not... yet,” he asks, sighing.  But he accepts the two bottles, uncapping one to sniff, then yanks it back, looking horrified.  “Seriously?”

Jordan tries not to laugh.  He _really_ tries, but a chuckle escapes as he uncaps his own ‘medicine’.  With the little bottle in one hand and the dredges of his truly terrible coffee in the other, Jordan toasts the Sheriff.

“To... not dying a terrifying and painfully supernatural death?”

Jordan manfully chokes his down, grateful for the coffee chaser and almost immediately feels like he could pull another eight hours.

“Wow,” the Sheriff says quietly, seeing the change first hand.  He stands with his empty coffee mug and disappears into the break room, returning with his own full cup to follow suit.  “This _has_  to be punishment,” he groans two minutes later, eyes watering. 

Jordan snorts but doesn’t comment, turning back to his own files.  If it is punishment, he thinks, it’s the kindest type there is.

***********

“So how was it?” Danny asks carefully.

Stiles shrugs, still silent.  He really can’t bring himself to say much today and so has Kira practically glued to his right side and Danny on his left.  So far they’ve made him drink the large mocha they’d brought for him, a bagel, a McMuffin sandwich and a fruit cup, from somewhere.  After last night, he figures he’s earned a mental brain break, even if just a little one.  But he’d said, quietly, that he’d seen his father the night before.  Then he clammed up, feeling too heavy and too weary and too everything, maybe, to say any more.

“Later?” He asks quietly and they nod, then fill him in on their own Sunday activities.

“Danny’s nearly perfected the mojo juice potion-making.  And he _did_  perfect the healing salve,” Kira reports with a little smile that wilts after a second.  “Which is good timing, maybe, since everyone’s dreams are going wonky again.”  Stiles nods agreement; he’d noticed.  “Grams ordered about a thousand disposable bottles for the mojo juice, just in case.”

“And I couldn’t find much online about ‘The Nameless One’, on the surface,” Danny begins, “except that ‘Jennifer Blake’s history begins and ends with a teaching certificate from a non-existent college on the east coast and driver’s license and bank accounts both just ‘popped up’, like, five months ago.  That’s all I had time for yesterday, though.”  

Stiles nods again, blowing out a little weary gust of air.  Even with the extra food, he’s tired today.  He hadn’t expected seeing his dad up close would affect him quite like this.  Or maybe it’s just that on top of everything else.

He makes it all the way through third hour without having to say another word until Coach, maybe a little rattled by his silence, or something, pulls him out into the hallway after Stiles turns in his Monday Quiz.

“You alright?” Coach asks, practically whispering.  Not that it helps, when the only people interested in hearing already can.

“Yeah, just... not feeling great today.  I’m fine, Coach.”

Coach nods but clearly doesn’t believe him and sends him back to his desk anyway, still looking a little concerned.  Stiles’ butt’s barely hit his seat again when he’s suddenly, for some reason, called to the Principal’s office.  Stiles shrugs at Danny and Kira and trudges out.

“He’ll be with you in a snap!” Ms. Mercer informs him with a friendly smile when Stiles gets to the main office.  True to her word, he shuffles in to see Dr. Barker, the big cheese himself, a quick thirty seconds later.

“Stiles!” He greets with an unusual (toward Stiles) half smile.  “Have a seat, would you?”

Well Stiles wasn’t nervous before, but he suddenly is now.  It’s kind of a record out of the principal’s office for him.  Maybe Dr. Barker just missed him?

“Well, we’ve learned...” Barker clears his throat and tries again.  “We’ve learned, if our information is correct, that you’re no longer living at home with your father?”

Stiles’ stomach drops.

“Um... no?”

“And... I’m aware your mother is deceased,” Barker comments, though gently, his eyes on his computer monitor while he scans over Stiles’ school file.  “Are you... living with another relative at this time?”

Stiles swallows.  “No.  But I’m 18.  Legally, I don’t need to live with anyone at all?”

“True! True, but what concerns me—“ Barker sighs, looking down at his desk in a troubled way, then stands and closes the door behind Stiles before returning to his seat.  “School district lines are drawn the way they are for a reason, I’m afraid.  But I think, for you, there are some... extenuating circumstances?” Barker asks almost delicately.

Stiles licks his lips a little nervously.  “I’d rather not say,” he says honestly.  And he shouldn’t have to, but needs to think of some qualifiable excuse, maybe, if he’s going to keep going to school here.

Barker nods again, eyes flitting to the closed door and back before he clears his throat a little.  “Meetings... are meant to be anonymous, I know,” he says quietly with his eyes gentle on Stiles.  “But it doesn’t stop me from recognizing people when I go.”

Stiles frowns, shifting in his seat.  Well, this is... very awkward.  But maybe a good thing, too?  Hopefully?

“If, for whatever reason, you feel you can’t go home, I have to ask... are you staying someplace safe?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out honestly, nodding.  “Very.”

“But not in this district?” Barker clarifies.  

Who the hell leaked this little detail, anyway? Stiles wonders, because it’s clever and honest and downright lawful.  Also, maybe enough to get him legally transferred out of this school entirely.

“Technically?  County property,” Stiles says a little vaguely.  Barker nods again, frowning a little in thought.

“Outside the district, we’d normally just transfer you to whatever school is closest, but I think, for now, you can finish up this year here.  But we’ll need to look at other arrangements for your senior year, if you’re not living in the district by then,” Barker says with a look of understanding.  “Will that work for now, at least?”

Stiles sighs with relief and nods.  He’ll definitely have moved by then, if he survives that long.

“Alright.  And, as a concerned school official, you have somewhere else you can go if you need to?  Somewhere safe?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, firmly.  More than a few, now, if he counts Danny, Kira, maybe Alan.  “I’ve got places, if I need them.  But right now I don’t, so...”

Dr. Barker smiles again, a little more than half this time, just as the bell rings.  “Alright then, why don’t you go on to your next class.”

And that was that, really.  Stiles doesn’t need to wonder too hard about who set this up, but he keeps a keen lookout for Scott anyway.  

***********

Danny and Kira have both been watching the other pack members in Econ since Stiles slumped his way out the door.  To Danny’s subtly trained eye, none of them looks especially suspicious.  Not until the bell rings, at least.  Danny doesn’t consider himself a violent person, by any means, but he’d like to slap the almost cruel little smile Scott’s suddenly wearing right off his face.  He might not need to, though, if Danny’s reading the look in Isaac’s eye correctly.

Danny nods to Kira (who’s eyes are also narrowed on Scott) to let her know he’s on it and vanishes into the crowded hallway unseen, trailing after Scott and Isaac who veer straight into the men’s room.

“Damnit Scott, what did you do?” Isaac hisses, peeking back over his shoulder like he’d be able to tell if someone (like Danny) is hovering nearby unseen.

“Hey, don’t be like this,” Scott cajoles, reaching for Isaac’s hand.  “I didn’t go anywhere near him.  Not that I’d know,” he mutters, looking peevish. “It’s fine—“

“It’s really not, Scott,” Isaac snaps, stepping back out of reach.  “What. Did. You. _Do?_ ” He demands, face set and angry.

Scott sighs impatiently.  “Made sure the school knows there’s people here that don’t qualify as ‘within the district’, because it’s true,” he says, like it’s obvious.  “Why is this a big deal now, all the sudden?  You know it’s driving me crazy that he’s here and ‘not here’, with those two always smelling like him.  And with everything going on, we’ll all be better off without him—“

Scott’s words cut off when he stumbles back from the force of the slap.  Danny silently applauds Isaac and promises himself he’ll buy the guy a new ridiculous scarf.  Minus the mint, even.  Scott’s cupping his cheek and staring at Isaac with a wounded look.

“ _You_ , Scott,” Isaac spits furiously.  “ _You_ might think _you’ll_ be better off, but none of the rest of us will.  None of us felt even remotely whole until he was back in our lives, even if he’s only just a little in our lives!  And we definitely weren’t ‘better off’ until he started spending enough time with us that we stopped getting freaky and sick.  And _Allison_ , you asshat, _absolutely_ needs the boost, or whatever, she gets from just being near him.”

Scott sets his feet while his expression sours.  “She’s fine now!  She’s been fine!  And none of us are ever around him enough for it to even matter and we’re all still fine!”

Isaac slaps his hand to his own head.  “Are you deliberately being dense?  Every time we go to the theater, Stiles is there too!  Have you seriously not noticed the difference in how we feel from beginning to end?!  You, Scott, are the _only_ one who thinks he doesn’t ‘need him’.  The rest of us _know_ we do.

“And fuck that stupid power he has anyway!  We all want him back, you selfish dick.  We want _Stiles_ , powerful or not,” he stresses, almost trembling with emotion.  “And for you to do _this_ to him just as _his father_ moves back home?  You keep claiming how well you know him, you ass!  Then you _know_ Stiles is dedicated enough to maybe actually move back there with him, just to keep the rest of us healthy and safe!”

Scott’s gone pale, lips trembling a little, but expressionless, mostly, as he shakes his head.

“Holy shit, you— You didn’t even consider that, did you?  DID YOU?” Isaac snarls, eyes glowing.  “You’d put him back in the house where he _died_ , with the drunken prick who killed him, just so YOU will be _better off??_ ”

Scott’s shaking his head harder, now looking bewildered and confused and hurt, like he honestly doesn’t understand Isaac’s reaction. Isaac’s reaction, though, is looking a little unhinged, to Danny.  This is about to get ugly.  Unless....

Danny huffs a little with his own worried expression when Isaac’s claws ‘snick’ out of his fingertips and Scott starts reaching for his boyfriend, looking both sorry (probably for the wrong thing entirely) and also like he’s about to spew out something suicidally moronic.  Danny’s rope (likely for the best) reaches Isaac before Scott does.

Which leaves Scott blinking around at the empty bathroom before he even gets another inch further forward, still looking like he’s wondering what the hell just happened.  “Isaac?”

***********

Danny hauls Isaac, (wriggling madly and snarling) bound tight in Danny’s rope, straight down to the (thankfully empty) locker rooms unseen.  He shoves him into the shower and lets him hover there under a spray of icy-cold water until Isaac begins to look a little more human, then calls his rope back with a flick of the wrist, dropping Isaac with a wet splat onto the floor.  Danger past, Danny blinks himself back into view to shut off the shower spray, then leans back against the far wall to wait.

Isaac glares with confusion at Danny, then at the tiled floor, then at his own soaked self, then shudders head to toe, muscles loosening a little at a time until he sighs with a pained look and leans back against the tiled shower wall.

“Shit,” Isaac says after a few minutes, looking rattled.  “Thank you,” he chokes out quietly.

“You bitchslapped him before I did,” Danny shrugs, still leaning on the opposite wall.  “That was honestly all the thanks I needed.”

Isaac huffs with a nod, not looking sorry for that part at all, then looks down at his now-soaked clothes with a wince.

Danny rolls his eyes, disappears into the locker room and comes back with Isaac’s P.E. clothes, gives them a good shake so the eye-searing pink fades away like it’d never been there, tosses them to Isaac and turns to go.

“You’ll tell him, won’t you?” Isaac asks before Danny reaches the door.  “That it wasn’t all of us?  Because we _do_ want him here.  And I know we don’t deserve him, but we want him _back_ , too, magic or not.  But I— _I_ just want him somewhere _safe_.  And that’s sure as hell’s not at his dad’s.”

Danny sighs quietly, tucking his rope back into his pocket and nods.  “Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

***********

Danny does tell Stiles and Kira in an empty hallway on their way to lunch, rope smartly hidden in his hand to lasso Kira with before she gets more than five feet in whatever direction she thinks Scott’s in and then Danny and Stiles both smoosh her into a three-way unseen hug until she calms back down. 

“That _asshole_ ,” she seethes, once her fox aura has faded back.  Her eyes are still a little glow-y, though, and tucks her under his own arm for a side-squeeze as they all head outside to the lacrosse pitch again for lunch.

Stiles looks briefly stung by Scott’s newest attempt to get Stiles gone, but just shrugs a little and tells them he’s got ‘til senior year to find a new place to live, in district.  Danny’s not especially worried about that since his own mom has invited Stiles to stay if he ever wants to, and Danny knows Kira’s family would (informally) adopt him in a snap and work it out with the school themselves.  It’s actually Stiles’ _lack_ of reaction that worries him.  This whole thing with the Sheriff being back in town and Scott being a royal douche is really rolling him.

Despite Danny’s gentle pushiness and Kira’s firm pushiness, neither gets Stiles to eat much for lunch.  And Stiles doesn’t say much at all for the remainder of the school day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, of the handful of Ladies and Queens I’ve met, Raina in New Orleans was easily the most memorable and entertaining. She was big, black, beautiful and could belt it out like a southern Whitney Houston, which was seriously mind blowing if one considers the very male vocal chords.
> 
> I think she’d be pleased with my rendition of her here. :)


	21. Djinn Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do ya get when you mix one naive, stupidly-trusting teen wolf with a too-sweet-to-be-true high school English teacher?
> 
> Nothing good.
> 
> The mysterious entity gets a little less mysterious. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back. With conversational plot, even! :)

 

*************

Isaac just vanished into thin air, taking his anger with him.  Scott feels pretty dumb now, with Isaac’s words still echoing a little in his head.  Stiles would _never_ move back home with his dad there.  Would he?  No, Isaac’s just—   _This has to be Stiles’ fault._   Scott knows that because the thought just settles in his mind like it’s the most natural thought there is; well, byond _I love Allison and Isaac_  and _I love Mom_  and _I am pack._   What he’s a little lost on is _why_ this is Stiles’ fault.  Scott’s not stupid enough to believe that just because something _feels_  right, it _must_  be true.  After all, ‘Stiles will be safer and better off out of the pack’ had felt like the truth, too.  And Stiles... definitely hadn’t been.  

Scott winces at the thought and slumps morosely off toward the guidance office for his quarterly appointment, his head too full and wondering how Stiles managed to vanish Isaac when he was supposed to be in the Principal’s office getting transferred far enough away that he’d be less of a distraction to Scott (stupidly) trying to get a handle on his own life again.He’d never even considered—

Maybe... maybe Isaac was right after all.Another thing that Scott knows is truth and yet feels ‘off’, maybe because everything’s spiraling out of control all over again.He needs time he doesn’t have to think all this through and someone to help sort out all the chaos in his head.And Dr. Deaton has made it pretty clear that even _he’s_ on Stiles’ side now. 

Scott’s almost afraid to ask his Mom about any of this and even that feels ‘off’.He used to be able to talk to her about almost anything, after she’d learned about the werewolf stuff.Now he feels like there’s so little he can tell her without having to lie (and he knows he’s a bad liar, usually) and he hates it and hates how everyone’s so upset with him all the time.

Maybe he should just have lunch in Miss Blake’s room again.He’ll catch up on whatever work there is for today and that’ll be good, at least.Besides, the pack have been annoyed with him enough lately that maybe some time without Scott there will give them time to realize he’s not entirely wrong about all this; to understand Scott’s reasoning: Stiles will still be safer _away_.And it’s maybe not just Scott and Miss Blake who think so.

*************

“ _Of course_ it’s not just us who think so,” Miss Blake says quietly, then holds up a hand while she closes the door, furrows her brows and draws a small design beside the skinny window with her finger, then again when Scott shakes his head.It takes three tries (Miss Blake’s cheeks are pink with embarrassment) before Scott smiles at her, nodding when the sounds of the school go a little soft and muffled.(Scott’s struck by the odd thought that if Stiles knew this spell and they were still friends, suffering through Harris’ class would be a lot more fun this year.) His smile slips away, remembering that’s never going to happen now.

Miss Blake’s mostly just psychic, Scott knows (she’d proven that much during his first lunch detention for missing homework), but she also knows a few small spells, like the one she uses to keep their conversations private, even if it’s just one of his lunch detention/study breaks.Those few lunch studies a week all by themselves have been really helpful; his English grade has literally never been as good as it is so far this year.

“No one seems to think so anymore,” Scott sighs out, pulling out his lunch.“Everyone’s upset, thinking him being away will make everyone sick again and somehow ruin everything.But a lot’s already ruined—“

“Don’t be silly, Scott.Nothing is ruined because nothing is permanent, remember?” Miss Blake smiles kindly over her shoulder with a hint of ‘you’re smarter than this, if you’ll just think it through’ on her face.“Just keep your eye on your long-term goals and all the right decisions will practically make themselves.”

She’s hanging her suncatcher back up - the one that helps with her psychic-y meditation/re-centering exercises that’s too sparkly and distracting to the students to keep up all day.But they were pretty to watch and Scott always found himself feeling calm and re-centered too.It seems that even on cloudy days, the crystals sparkle and twirl and it’s easier to remember all the reasons he’d made the choices he has so far: everything he does, really, is to keep Stiles safe, even if it means Scott has to distance himself from Stiles.And how is that much different than now, when Scott can’t ever see him or hear him or smell him at all? (Unless it’s on other people, anyway.)Even the jeep is invisible to Scott now and he _hates_ it.

“I know...” Miss Blake says delicately, biting her lip a little, “that you haven’t been able to see him lately, but... he’s starting to look a little sick.I just— I mean, I know no one thinks him using magic is a bad thing, but...”

“I’ve wondered, before now,” Scott says, nodding solemnly and frowning down at his sandwich before those sparkling crystals in the window catch his attention again.“But he already knows a lot of magic now and—“

“Would it be so different than taking away a pain killer from someone who’s maybe taking them too often?I mean, he shouldn’t need to rely on it like it sounds like he might be,” she says quietly.

Scott’s stomach flips a little because— Oh god, is Stiles an _addict?_   Could that be part of the problem?Doesn’t addiction run in families?The sparkling of the crystals seem almost to be nodding and he nods along with them, lips setting in a firm line.“I need to get him _away_ from all this, where he won’t _need_ the magic anymore.He’ll get better then, right?”

“I hope so,” Miss Blake agrees softly, hands wringing on the desk while she bites her lip uncertainly.“But if Derek and some of the others still think they need him to stay healthy—“

“Derek doesn’t know everything,” Scott says with a scowl.Derek doesn’t know about a lot, it seems, except maybe about finding the perfect girlfriend that everyone in the pack loves.Definitely doesn’t know enough to be making decisions for Stiles; not like Scott can, who’s always known Stiles best.“But yeah... everyone’s gonna be as mad as Isaac when they hear I tried to get him transferred because they all still think we need him or him using magic or whatever for us to not get sick again like we were.”

“But restoratives reverse the effects too, don’t they?Like with Erica and Lydia?And with Derek when he got sick?Almost anyone can make a potion if they need to and I doubt anyone else has even tried!But I can talk to them, maybe smooth things over a little,” she murmurs, gazing at her sun catcher.Scott’s eyes drift there too and he relaxes again. 

“But even then,” Miss Blake continues, “that still won’t help Stiles right away.Even if there is a way to keep him from using magic, it would take time to prepare it, and doesn’t keep him safely away from here now.I just wish...I wish there was more we could do.I hate to see him suffering like this when he shouldn’t have to!”

With Scott’s eyes caught up on the smallest green crystal spinning lazily, it’s tough to see the tears in her eyes, so emotionally distraught as all this is making her, but Scott can smell her worry.He _knows_ she wants to help, almost as much as he does.Her support all this year has really been a gift.The crystals continue their slow, glittery spin.

“Maybe,” Miss Blake says slowly.“Maybe there’s a different way to help him, short-term?If he’s staying to try to keep everyone safe from the entity and trying to figure out who the caster is...”

“Then maybe we could help solve those so he won’t have to?” Scott asks, head tilted in thought.“But the police still don’t want the pack involved with the sacrifice thing for whatever reason, but Lydia’s still kind of in-the-know.She still talks to that Parrish guy sometimes.”

Miss Blake bites her lip, looking uncertain.“I don’t know... she still thinks you all need Stiles and the magic he uses too.And I’ve heard her talk to Parrish; it doesn’t sound like he tells her much anyway.Is there any other way we can get details on the investigation?”

Scott frowns, his eyes a little hazy while he thinks.Scott’s heard how little Parrish tells Lydia too.But... maybe hearing is the answer.“I can maybe just eavesdrop at the station?I doubt there’s much talk of anything except the sacrifices over there right now.”

Miss Blake’s surprised smile has Scott smiling too.“Oh my goodness, of course!Such a simple solution!”Her smile slips away a few seconds after.“But until we can prove to the pack that they don’t need him for magic...”

“They don’t have to know until it’s taken care of?” Scott suggests, nodding.Why would they need to know?They’ll still be just as not-involved with the police as they are now, and—

The school bell echoes loudly out of the intercom speaker above the white board, startling Scott out of his thoughts.Miss Blake is already pulling down her suncatcher from the window again, smiling reassuringly over her shoulder at him while he blinks the room back into focus, feeling refreshed.He hardly even remembers eating, but tastes potato chips and juice on his tongue, so he must’ve.It’s weird how fast a forty minute lunch period goes when he’s in here.

“So hopefully I’ll see you at Derek’s, later?” Miss Blake smiles, looking as calm and confident and refreshed as Scott himself now feels.She’s almost glowing a little, even, then a little more when he nods.“And don’t worry about the others, really.It’ll all work out, you’ll see!” She says with certainty as she walks him to the door.“And if you happen to overhear anything at the station...” she says a little quieter, smearing her invisible spell off the door, then again (looking a little embarrassed at her lack of accuracy) until the sound of talkative students floods in from under the door.

“Then it’ll only help,” Scott says, firmly.“And maybe I can come back for another study session?” He suggests keenly.She smiles again looking reassured, and walks him out.

“Try not to worry too much,” she murmurs.

Scott departs, already moping a little again at how tough the rest of the day will be.But he’s got a new goal, and it helps to know there’s things he can still do.It might be tough going for a little while, but he’s not giving up now.He ducks his head down, seeing an angry Erica shift her eyes away from him and stalk past without a word, then heads himself toward his locker.They’ll understand, once Stiles is safely away.With the way Miss Blake lights up the loft whenever she stops by now, surely they’ll all feel a little better toward Scott by the time everyone heads home for the night.They always do.

*************

Cherie Niles pulls into the ER parking lot and wonders again if she’s maybe a little bit crazy.Her sister definitely thinks so, for Cherie to ever come back here again.She herself isn’t so sure, because their mother had told them both, as her grandmother had told their mother and for generations back one of the wisest bits of advice known:Anger a mage and sooner or later, you’ll come to regret it.

Cherie’s not naive enough to think that just because he wasn’t a full mage when she and her harem had been here before doesn’t mean his wrath won’t eventually extend to those who’d once angered him; like accidentally harming those girls in his pack, for instance.Neither she nor her sister (or any of the former-harem) can afford to spend the rest of their lives looking over their shoulders, _waiting_... and neither can their children, not if Cherie can hopefully make it right beforehand.

Or, as her sister believes, Cherie is well and truly cracked and crazy and will never leave this town alive.

Like most the nursing staff did, Cherie knows the mage Stiles was well-known to Melissa McCall to the point of being family.With as understandably chaotic as this place has become, the hospital is likely the best place to find a nurse as dedicated as Melissa.Cherie heaves in a breath, steps out of the car, and a minute later almost gets her shoulder skinned by the ambulance she was too distracted to hear rolling to a quick stop beside her.

Cherie already knows it’s a bad one.She can feel the echo of the man’s pain and grief, even before the sound of his screaming doubles when the loading doors open and she finds herself rushing forward as the stretcher wheels hit the ground, her professional face slipping into place as she pulls (out and on) her own emergency pair of sterile gloves from the side of her purse and steps around the paramedic already opening his mouth to protest when she cuts him briskly off.

“Cherie Niles, R.N. and state-certified trauma counselor.What’s his name?” She demands calmly, edging up to the screaming man shivering in obvious agonized-shock, jaw clenched almost tight enough to crack his own teeth and pant-screaming with every breath.Considering the amount of blood seeping through the numerous individual bandages, she’s not surprised.But his shock feels like it’s about to hike and that alone will worsen his already (obvious) life-threatening injuries.This is what she does - what she’d trained herself to do.The mage can wait for just a little while.

“Uh... Mike Dixon,” the paramedic beside her says, flustered.He’s never dealt with an on-sight specialist but shrugs it off after a few seconds.They’re at the hospital and once this poor bastard’s off his stretcher, she’ll be the hospital’s problem, not his.“Neighbor with a chainsaw and he’s allergic to our standard pain reducers, according to the neighbor’s wife.”She nods and lays her hand on the guy’s cheek, drawing his face toward her.

“Mike?My name’s Cherie.Can you hear me?”Mike’s eyes fix on her like she’s a visual lifeline.He tremble-jerks out a nod, pant-screams easing into pant-groans.“Good,” she murmurs.“We’re getting you help, right now, alright?I’ll be right here the whole time, okay?”She’s trying not to flinch at the amount of pain trickling in through this tenuous connection, but it’s tough.Mike shiver-nods, again.“Alright,” she murmurs, giving him her best ‘you’re going to make it through this’ look and then nods to the paramedic, Roy, across from her, then back to Mike.“Let’s go in nice and easy, Mike, and get you looked after.”

The three make their cautious (not to hit a single agony-inducing bump) but quick way in through the doors to meet the team of nurses and doctor waiting just inside.Cherie’s not especially surprised to see that one of them is Melissa McCall; she’s not especially surprised to feel the immediate distrust and borderline fear either.Cherie nods to her anyway and hopes for the best.

*************

Melissa is keeping her cool, and has been all day.  _Somehow_.But the replacement doctor Chase Memorial South had sent until their own new ER specialist arrived next week is an honest-to-god nightmare all on his own, nevermind the increasingly crazed patients that roll and walk in every day.

“I hear something rolling innnnn?Why wasn’t I paaaaged?” Dr. Delaney whines in his (accusing) near-toneless, sing-song-like way.“Nurse McNaaaaab... thought you were onnn thaaaat?”

Melissa would consider that, truly... if he’d ever remember her name correctly.Which he hasn’t.In fact, he’s gone through nearly the entire ‘McPhonebook’ and hasn’t gotten it right even _once_ the entire time he’s been here.

“Sorry Dr. Delavey, it was a late call in,” she reply/lies and rolls straight into the stats before he can gripe about his own not-name.“Mike Dixon, 37.Arm and torso lacerations due to an incident with a neighbor wielding a chainsaw.Heavy shock partially due to the neighbor cutting himself open, somehow, from throat to groin. Time on the bus, three minutes.Major allergy to nearly all painkillers according to another neighbor.”

Anna’s filling in with Melissa in the ER today (since another nurse called in with what Melissa is starting to think of as the scaredy-cat flu), and is trying not to laugh at either Delaney’s extreme snobbery or Melissa’s backhanded rejoinders, but nods agreement to the doctor, already pulling on her own gloves over her spatter gown.“Trauma two is open, Doctor.”

“I’m awaaaaare, Nurse Mitchels, thank youuuu,” he says dismissively and Anna scowls behind his back and rolls her own eyes toward Melissa - Anna’s way of agreeing this man, doctor or not, is an egotistical, whiny _ass_.

But even with the slightly shocking appearance the man on the stretcher is with the sheer amount of blood both under and seeping through the equally numerous bandages, it’s far more shocking for Melissa to see their very own Nurse Niles, trauma specialist (and djinn, according to Scott) enter with him, her hand gently grasping the patient’s and murmuring to him nonstop while he pants and trembles through the pain.Nurse Niles looks up briefly and pauses for a split second before giving Melissa a sharp, knowing nod, then murmurs down to Mr. Dixon again.

Well... _Crap_.

“I’m sorrryyyyyy, you can’t be back he—” Delaney starts, frowning at the djinn who just blinks over the stretcher at him with an direct and in-charge look.

“Cherie Niles, R.N. and state-certified trauma counselor,” she cuts in.  “He’s been through a trauma, my postpartum checkup ended ten minutes ago and I’m already here.Though I could use a gown and perhaps new gloves,” she adds, looking confident that someone will give her just that, and likely anything else she asks for.“Unless you’re also certified, Doctor...?” she demands, somewhat impatiently, lifting a brow at Delaney.

Considering Delaney looks fresh out of med school, Melissa’s not the only one who doubts he’s certified in much beyond the basics; the very reason for that whole ‘What do you call an idiot who graduated at the bottom of their class in med school? A doctor.’ joke.Melissa bites her lip to keep from smiling at the flustered look Delaney gives the (obviously) more experienced and competent counselor.

“Don’t go,” the man on the stretcher pants out with difficulty.“Please.”

“Fine, fine,” Delaney mutters, trying to regain the appearance of in-charge-ness, “Room twoooo, lets stabilize him and get him upstaaairs.”

Melissa drops back a few paces, eying the djinn warily until they’re almost side by side.

“If you _hurt_ him—“ Melissa mutters just loud enough not to be heard by anyone else.

“Of course not.But I _am_ taking his pain, since he’s allergic to all the standards.If I let go of him, it’s going to get very loud in here and I’m not prone to cruelty.Right place, right time, that’s it.But I only came back to town to see the mage, Stiles,” she whispers quietly and seriously back, giving Melissa a significant look.

“Right,” Melissa sighs, but dutifully grabs another spatter gown and a handful of gloves as they wheel the patient into the trauma room.

*************

With Danny staying after school for jazz band practice and Kira headed home with her father for her shift at the tea shop, Stiles is heading out to the jeep alone in the thick rush of departing students when Melissa calls.It’s a good distraction from watching Allison ream out Scott across the lot before she storms away to get a ride with Jackson and Lydia, leaving Scott standing alone with nothing but his dirt bike and looking more frustrated and angry than anything else.Whatever, Stiles turns away and unlocks his jeep while he answers the call.

After a murmured greeting and semi-explanation on the djinn visitor, Stiles blinks back in Scott’s direction and wonders why Melissa hadn’t called him first.The djinn were the pack’s problem, way back when.

“She’s asking for ‘the mage, Stiles’,” Melissa answers his unspoken question and Stiles frowns, perplexed.

“I’ll be right over.”

*************

Stiles, who’s long been a regular installment at the hospital, doesn’t bother with going in unseen and is fractionally cheered up by the number of nurses and other staff who smile his way as he weaves through the crowd of exhausted-looking patients still in the waiting room and all still waiting to be seen. 

He slips in through the quickly-shutting door of the ER and almost stumbles over a stray sheet hanging off a used and dirty gurney shoved against the wall.There’s quite a few of them lining the hallway, actually, in an apparent queue to be cleaned and sterilized for reuse.Stiles spies Melissa’s curly hair vanish into one of the trauma rooms ahead and veers that direction, waving silently to another nurse behind a bank of computers who points Melissa’s way with a smile.

“Young mannnnnnn, you can’t be back herrrrrrre.You need to leeeeeave,” comes an almost mean, droning, nasal voice that would put even Harris’ sometimes (still) droning, asshole attitude to shame.The nurse just behind the guy rolls her eyes with a scowl (actually, so do the two other nurses plus one other doctor, within Stiles’ limited sight) that mirrors Stiles’ internal ‘is this dickhead for real?’ face.The snobby doctor in his pristine white coat and expensive-looking slacks and shoes hasn’t even looked up from his gingerly-held chart (is he afraid of the germs on it?How did this douche even become a doctor, anyway?), Stiles makes a snap decision.Later, he’ll blame (or thank) Kira and her terrible, terrible influence.

“Uncle Henry?!” Stiles begs frantically, forcing a few tears to his super-wide eyes to accompany his insta-panic expression and all but rushes the smarmy doctor, reaching to grasp the (idiot) man and practically stumbles into him, forcing him back a few steps.“Is he okay?What happened?!My aunt’s on the way but she wouldn’t say—“ The (dick) doctor is already stumbling himself backward and out of Stiles’ possibly-filthy clutches looking annoyed at having to deal with a (gasp) real person who’s clearly a family member rather than a patient who’s less likely to argue with his smarmy attitude.The moron hardly notices he’s backing himself into a used gurney that has a revolting amount of vomit smeared along it’s edge that has already dripped down to puddle a little on the floor — right where the doc (dick) has backed himself into.

“Stiles!” Melissa calls, then grasps Stiles by the shoulders and around his back in a comforting way and begins to turn him, giving the doctor (dick) a reassuring ‘I’ll take him for you, don’t worry’ look and steers him back down the hall toward the room she’s just left.“It’s your Uncle Mike, actually, and he’ll be fine, I’m sure, so—“ Melissa lets her words trail off to bite her lip, (when the doctor behind them whines loudly with disgust) her eyes sparkling with hilarity.“Oh my god, _thank you!_ ” she breathes out and Stiles must’ve done right when even the second doctor gives him a discreet thumbs up from behind his clipboard file, biting his own cheek to keep from smiling.Stiles, his own back already to the whining dickhead, flashes everyone a bright smile to go with his ‘what else could I even do?’ head-tilt/shoulder-shrug combo until Melissa leads Stiles into the trauma room.

Stiles’ trickster grin melts off his face in a hurry, seeing the amount of blood that covers the man panting painfully on the gurney while he murmur-chatters to both a note-taking Parrish on a stool on one side of the bed and to the slender, dark-haired woman on the far side who’s also set on a stool and clinging calmly to the man’s (somehow) unbloodied hand. 

Stiles isn’t sure what he expected a djinn to look like, but this one doesn’t look even remotely evil.In fact, she looks like exactly the kind of medical professional (competent, calm, and self-assured) that Stiles would _absolutely_ want by his side if he ever ended up as much a literal bloody mess as this poor guy is.

“What the hell happened to him?” Stiles mumbles to Melissa, who sighs with an unsettled look.

“Neighbor went crazy, apparently.Then the neighbor got a chainsaw,” she murmurs back, pulling on new gloves to go re-check the man’s vitals.

Well, that explains the blood and Parrish.Stiles zeros in on the djinn again who’s now flinching a little nervously under Stiles’ scrutiny but her aura seems peaceful, if not a little shimmery where she’s pulling the man’s pain out and easing his likely-traumatized mind enough for him to speak.  _Huh._   Stiles hadn’t been convinced about the pain-drain-y part of djinn lore, but now he supposes he can have Alan update his copy of the beastiary.

But pain drain or not, the guy’s clearly still in agony and Stiles frowns.Don’t they usually have beds upstairs for patients this bad off?

“Why’s he still down here?” He asks Melissa quietly when she returns with a chart and pen.

“Poor guy’s waiting for an operating room and they’re nearly booked upstairs already with the number of people getting hurt in the last few days.Also, they’re airlifting some pain meds he’s not allergic to from Chase Memorial, but it’ll be another hour or more before it gets here.Cherie said she can help with the pain ‘til then, so...” Melissa shrugs a little nervously but Stiles gives her a nod.

“She is helping, yeah,” Stiles reassures. “Good call, I think.” 

Cherie the djinn is calming down again, (now that Stiles has) and a few minutes later Parrish stands, sliding his little notebook away with a quiet parting word to the man.His expression is a little more severe and a lot more worried when he approaches Stiles.

“Not to undermine how awful the incident was that put this guy here in this condition, but I could’ve sworn I saw something oily and black crawl out of the attacker’s body before the coroner bagged him up,” he whispers, looking unsettled.“And then slither off towards the woods.Any ideas?”

Stiles’ breath catches.If that’s what the entity’s been up to while it’s been so quiet, that’s— Shit.That’s—

Well... that’s perfectly _fucked_ , is what it is.

Because it’s _daytime_.

It’s even _sunny_ out.

And that means _anyone_ could be infected by now.Maybe _a lot_ of anyones.  Maybe _thousands._

“ _Shit_ ,” Stiles says, aloud this time.“The entity,” he mumbles and Parrish frowns with confusion.“The, uh... nightmare thing we saw in the street that night?Yeah, I’ve seen it do the possession thing once before.”

“You mean Mrs. Mahealani?The oily-worm-thing?” Melissa whispers, eyes intense.

“It shouldn’t have been able to do that at all, I don’t think,” comes a woman’s soothing but carrying voice from near the bed.

Stiles leans around Melissa, eying the djinn.“Do you know what it is?” He asks, edging cautiously toward the bed.The man’s still panting a little, but seems mostly dazed, staring blearily at the ceiling and on closer inspection, it looks like the bleeding’s slowed to a mellow seeping, somehow.Stiles holds up a hand to the woman before she answers and looks to Melissa.“Does his medical tag go with him upstairs?”Melissa nods.Stiles focuses on it, tries to replicate the pain-easing energy to mimic the djinn’s and heavily coats the laminated plastic with it as he slides his finger over the blood-splotchy top.The man sighs, eyes drifting peacefully shut either asleep or gently unconscious.The djinn blinks with surprise and cautiously slips her hand free of the man’s with a soft, concerned look at him.

Then she’s back to nervously (terrified-ly) watching Stiles.“I-never-meant-to-hurt-your-pack-I-was-already-panicking-and-I-tried-not-to-draw-off-them-at-all-but-it-was-a-reflex-I-couldn’t-control-and-I-made-sure-they-were-both-stable-before-I-left-I-swear,” she blurts out in a rush. 

Stiles raises up his hand to stall her words and she flinches back, half off of her stool.Stiles lowers his hand carefully and sighs a little.He’s not _that_ scary-looking, is he?He’s still in freaking high school.He’s wearing a _hoodie_.And hightop sneakers!How is he scary?Maybe his mage-vibe/aura is wigging her out.Or something.

“I’m not going to harm you.Really,” he insists when she stays pale and terrified-looking.Stiles sighs again.“I can see your aura,” he says, honestly.“And I can see that you’re peaceful.And I can see you’re telling the truth about not having hurt them on purpose.I have no reason to harm you, alright?”He hopes she’s empathic enough to know he’s being truthful.Her aura eases, a little.“And anything you can tell us about the entity, like what it even is? We need to know,” he stresses, “because we need to know how to _stop_ it.”

“I-I don’t know what it is _now_ ,” she says, easing back onto her stool and swallowing hard, eyes darting to Melissa and Parrish before returning to Stiles.“But... um, I-I think... I’m pretty sure it used to be a djinn.”

*************

Cherie’s story is short but informative.All seven of the harem stayed at a motel just outside Beacon Hills city limit for their first night here, having been drawn by the natural magic and energy of the territory and, as they always did, took shifts staying awake at night, on guard.By the next morning, their harem was down to six.

“But why would you think our entity used to be a djinn?” Stiles asks with confusion.

Cherie bites her lip.“Shayla, the one who went missing?She was a Resut djinn, and she was nearly due.”

“A nightmare djinn!?” Stiles asks, alarmed.Also... yeah, that actually makes sense, considering.Maybe.If a nightmare djinn can do all this, somehow.

“A dream djinn,” Cherie corrects.“Though now... I don’t know _what_ it is.But it still feels a little like a djinn, sort of.Just... twisted.Darkened.Like a nightmare, I suppose,” she admits with a half-shrug.“But when dreamer-infants and small children panic or become afraid?  They’re... unique in their defenses.They send out nightmares to drive off any threats, but more in the form of small black clouds that hold all the horrors and terrors a person fears, even if they don’t know what they are, and use the energy of that fear to strengthen themselves to make themselves safer.” Cherie pauses, swallowing.“But... if the child isn’t calmed or soothed right away?  It can get bad.They feed off the energy, which makes the cloud stronger and more potent which gives the child more to feed on, and on, and on, like a continuous loop.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees a little weakly, swallowing hard.“But small clouds?Not gigantic, building-sized ones?”

Cherie’s jaw drops when her eyes widen, leaving her looking almost comically unsettled.“No,” she whispers, then clears her throat.“No,” she says again.“The clouds never get any larger than the infant.And even that stops after six months of age, when they mature.They never get any larger than your average five-year old.  _Ever_.”

Stiles blinks.“A five year old at six months old?”

“Well,” Cherie shrugs, uncomfortably.“Djinn... grow quickly as children.But djinn mothers always keep the children away from the general population until then.Until they’ve learned control.  _Always_ ,” she reiterates, looking nervous again.

Huh.That definitely wasn’t in any of the lore.Then again, they’re only pregnant for four months, so...

“Okay, so... any idea how one would be able to effect an area as large as the county?” Stiles asks with brutal honesty.“Because _everyone_ here’s having nightmares.Bad enough ones to keep people awake for days or more and it’s killing people.Quite a lot of people, by now.”

“The direct exhaustion-related death count is up to twenty-two but that’s not counting accident-related deaths,” Melissa add quietly, checking the man’s blood pressure beside Stiles.Parrish hovers near the door, frowning a little but following the conversation intently.Which is good, Stiles thinks, because Parrish is going to be needed.Maybe sooner than later.For some reason, Stiles is sure, then snaps his thoughts back to the here and now.

“ _No_.Even adult djinn can’t effect and area that large.A household, maybe, but certainly nothing larger,” Cherie insists.“And even then, for an adult, sending a nightmare is harder than a dream.A nightmare would be a sort of one-punch effort.It would look and feel a lot more like a hallucination than anything else and be relatively short-lived.Like five minutes, maybe.”

“So there’s little or no chance I-Dream-of-Mom-Djinni had anything to do with this?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt it?Shayla had never been an overly-happy person, really, but she wasn’t violent or cruel.I can’t say she’s not the cause for sure, though; we haven’t heard from her since,” Cherie sighs, looking disturbed, even after all this time.“But we were pretty sure she felt that ‘pull’ from the woods, the same way the rest of us did.There was something or someone powerful out there, but I don’t even know what.But it didn’t feel _safe_ to any of us.Enough so that the next morning we left a note for Shayla at the motel front desk, just in case, and rented rooms at the motel down the block from here instead.”

“In the middle of the city?” Stiles asks, a little appalled.“Why?Isn’t that dangerous to the general population?”Seriously?  It sounds like deliberately setting the fox into the chicken yard, or something.

Cherie looks surprised, if not a little insulted.“Because it’s safer, not just for us, but for everyone.The more people we have to draw on, the less any one person ever gets drawn from.The city itself is full of energy, but the people who usually live in the city are often more... energetic, maybe?Street-smart people are always on guard and tend to react to threats with a certain emotional state.Even when there’s no threat, which is most of the time, they’re almost passionate, energized, prepared, all the time.When there’s a whole city full of people like that?Even walking a few blocks down the street, we could absorb tiny bits off of nearly every adult there is and go home full while they would hardly even feel the difference.And we would never, ever, walk the same route more than once a week.”

Stiles’ worries lessen a little, hearing that.“Oh...” he says stupidly.“Um... our information on djinn might be a little... outdated.”Stiles shrugs, a little embarrassed.“Sorry.” 

Cherie’s expression calms a little, too.“Well, I was always told mages have terrible tempers and to anger one meant certain death, even if it meant a full decade after any offense was taken, so... my information might be a little less than accurate too,” she admits.

Stiles huffs.“Well, in my case, I’m okay with being known as a supernatural Keyser Soze if it means keeping certain elements off my turf.I’ve seen some shady-looking people take one look at my markers around town and run for the hills.I’m perfectly okay with scaring off trouble-makers.But, um... back to our problem, you said you felt a pull?And no idea what it was?”

“No,” she sighs.“But it got stronger the longer we were here.Enough so to draw my sister into the woods before she broke free of it.She panicked, of course, and ran toward the closest lights she could find.”Cherie winces a little, biting her lip.“She ran into some poor were-jaguar girl who was leaving work for the night.A cleaning woman, maybe?She was almost as startled as Reesa.But just not being alone calmed Reesa down enough to call me to come get her.And then at the hospital a few days later...” Cherie shrugs again, wincing.“I really am sorry for sapping those girls.I tried not to draw off either of them at all, but the wolf already had her claws out and the banshee was about to scream at me and I just reacted and pushed them away.Will you please tell them?That I truly didn’t mean them harm?”Cherie’s aura is almost aching with remorse and embarrassment.

“I will,” Stiles assures, waving it off.“But, back up.Were-jaguar?And what building, exactly?” Stiles asks.

“Building?Oh, um... office building?At a small office park on the edge of Beacon Hills?”Cherie nods, her aura completely, inevitably honest.“But... the girl was fine.Startled, but fine.”

“Not when they found her body later the next morning,” Stiles sighs and watches Cherie pale, head shaking.

“That wasn’t us,” Cherie whispers with horror.“I swear.”

“I know, I know.I believe you.And she was a were-jaguar?”Stiles pauses to think when Cherie nods with certainty.“Parrish, do you have city and county maps in your car?”

“Sure?”Parrish says, looking confused.But Stiles already knows he does.All the county cruisers do.

“Coulllld you maybe go grab one for me?Of each?Please?” Stiles smiles hopefully at him.

Parrish shrugs, nods, and departs.

The second he’s out of sight, Stiles pins Cherie with a look.“So what happened upstairs here, then?Because that woman definitely _wasn’t_  fine.”

Cherie winces, biting her lip.“No, but she wasn’t fine before I rotated up there, either.She had pancreatic cancer and _begged_ me to help her end it.”

“Aw, hell,” Melissa sighs, looking more than sympathetic — _for Cherie_.

“Bad way to go, then?” Stiles guesses.

“One of the worst,” Melissa agrees with a grim nod.“I’m not certain I wouldn’t have done the same, if I’d had the means,” she says with a guilty little shrug.

“She was psychic,” Cherie says quietly.“And she knew I was a djinn and that I needed more energy-food than I’d been getting since I’d rotated up there.She wanted to, in her own words, ‘end her time of earthly service the right way’.I agreed, but _only_ after she agreed to think on it for three days first, call her remaining loved ones and all.But she didn’t have any family close-by, so she said all her good-byes over the phone and told them she thought her time was near.I’ll admit, I covered it up badly, but I was kind of hoping it would be taken as freak vampire attack if any pack caught wind of it.Or be considered a freaky death to local authorities.”

Stiles sighs. “It would have, if not for the underlying jasmine scent and the day-time timing.”

Cherie’s cheeks go bright pink when she wince-sighs.“Oh.”She huffs and shakes her head.“But I didn’t kill her to harm her.I sent her out feeling nothing but euphoria and peace not even an ounce of pain.She was _glad_ to go.”

Stiles knows she’s still telling the truth and nods his (somewhat) understanding.“I wouldn’t try that again in he future, though; certainly not with any local pack nearby.I wasn’t exactly magical when I figured out it wasn’t a vamp attack,” he advises.

Cherie smile-cringes in a way that reminds Stiles of Kira a little.“I’d never considered assisted suicide before and really wouldn’t try again.Too risky.And too emotional.”

Parrish comes bumping back in through the doors with maps in hand.

“Could you show me, maybe?Where the motel was and which direction you felt the pull from?It’d be a huge help,” Stiles tells her.

They all four crowd close around the map while Cherie marks the spots the original motel was (Motel 8, according to Parrish,) and where the office building was and the woods nearby it... not that far from where Scott said he’d found the other half of Laura’s body, actually.

Stiles nods, turning the map a little to align it with the city while he thinks.“And from the motel, which way did you fee—“

“ _Get_   _away_ ,” Scott snarls, eyes glowing furiously gold at Cherie from the doorway while the door itself swings shut behind him, “ _from my mother_.”

Cherie scrambles back, eyes wide and scared until she’s nearly to the small window in the far back corner behind her, breathing hard and her aura (to Stiles’ eye) darkening and spiking in unconscious, terrified defense.

“Scott,” Melissa says, moving forward to cut off his view of the djinn, “she’s here to hel—“

Neither Cherie’s obvious distance from _everyone_  involved or Melissa’s words seems to register to Scott because he just _dives_  at the djinn anyway, claws springing free and actually pounces, like a cat, _over_ the bloody man still sleeping/unconscious on the gurney and straight at her.

Thankfully, Stiles’ reaction times are still a little quicker than average, these days. While Cherie squeak-shrieks, golden-shaded spiraling tattoos flaring bright across her face and arms as she ducks down, almost prone to the floor and starts blubbering apologies, Scott freezes like a horizontal, beta werewolf statue in midair, mostly over the gurney with only his toes dangling over the bloody man’s shoulders.Melissa and Parrish feel like they’ve both frozen behind where Stiles is cautiously approaching Cherie, stooping under a still-growling Scott and trying to ooze Kira’s nifty ‘radiate calm/confident/peace’ thing she does.

“Cherie?Hey, it’s me.Still Stiles.He _won’t_ hurt you, Cherie, okay?He can’t because I won’t let him,” Stiles says firmly, ducking under Scott entirely to duck-waddle a little closer to the corner she’s in.Still, he waits for her possibly-dangerous, defensive aura stops spiking before he gives her a tentative look of ‘you’re okay, I swear’ when she lifts her tear-streaked, tattood face up, still trembling with adrenaline and gasping out little puffs of air.

Stiles holds his hand out in a peaceful way, but her eyes just shift upward to Scott, still hovering (and growling) just over Stiles’ head.Stiles ignores him, for the moment.“Consider yourself under my protection until you’re out of the county,” Stiles says quietly.

“Stiles!I know this is you, so  _stop it!_ Let me down before she hurts my mom!” Scott snarls, wriggling/vibrating a little in a way that would probably be thrashing if Stiles were letting him move more than a few centimeters in any direction.Stiles is sorely tempted to stick him to the ceiling again, if not the roof of the hospital.

 _“Scott McCall!!”_ Melissa grinds out quietly (and dangerously pissed) enough that Scott freezes entirely when Melissa storms up to him, grabs him by the ear and yanks a yelp out of him as his whole body swivels sideways so that Scott’s not dangling over her patient.Also, it seems, so that she can snarl in Scott’s face right back.“She’s been here for over an hour and I’m still fine.She’s been helping, you dingbat, so the man you just carelessly jumped over wouldn’t _die._ What the _hell_ is your problem?!”

Scott blinks stupidly from under his extra-furry beta eyebrows. “She was?”Scott’s eyes shift to over Melissa’s shoulders and he gulps, just a little.“Is he gonna shoot me?”

Stiles sighs and peers back over his shoulder at Parrish, who totally has his game-face on, weapon trained steadily on Scott, albeit, likely at Scott’s hip or leg or something, from that angle.“Don’t shoot him, Parrish,” Stiles says, kinda wishing (a tiny bit) he could say otherwise.Scott could maybe use a shot in the ass to clear his head. (It’s not like he wouldn’t heal.)“He’s an idiot, but no longer a deadly one, with his mom chewing him out.”

Parrish’s lip twitches the tiniest bit at that, but he keeps his eyes narrowed and doesn’t lower the weapon, though Stiles can also see the safety’s still on.“He doesn’t look any less dangerous with the fangs and... claws?Are those actual _claws_ he was going to use on that woman?”He looks highly disturbed and suddenly very suspicious of Scott.

Scott, finally calming somewhat, (and hopefully bitchslapping himself mentally) zips in his pokey beta-shift bits and finally, Parrish lowers and holsters his gun.He still looks somewhat disgusted with Scott, no matter how ridiculous Scott looks dangling there like an action movie put on pause.Melissa just glowers a lot at her idiot son and a tiny bit at Parrish, who’d just pulled his gun on her idiot son.

Stiles helps Cherie back to her feet and tugs her past a narrow-eyed Scott while Cherie watches him nervously and warily and wiping at her eyes until she’s near the door, stooping to pick up the fallen map and pen and clenches her eyes shut until her tattoos fade away entirely.

“Stiles!” Scott seethes, grumpy eyes darting around.“Let. Me. _Down_.”

Melissa adds a frown to her glower and shifts her eyes from Scott over to Stiles where he’s joined Cherie near the door.“Why can’t he see you?” She demands, bewildered.

Stiles huffs.  “Because it’s harder for him to glare his disapproval of my continued existence on the mortal plane if he can’t see me,” Stiles sighs out dejectedly.“Trust me, we’re both better off this way,” Stiles adds, but waves a hand toward Scott so he’s at least standing instead of floating.But he’s now also ringed in mountain ash, because Stiles ain’t that dumb; Scott right now _cannot_ be trusted.Melissa frowns at Stiles, then frowns harder at Scott, who glares at his own feet, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“So... do you know which way the pull came from?” Stiles asks Cherie again with a pointed nod to the map.

Cherie suddenly look very, _very_ sad for him, (for some reason that Stiles is trying not to think about right now) then shakes herself out of it to nod and bite her lip at the map again.“From behind the motel, and a little west of it, maybe?”She’s still trembling a bit as she marks little arrows to where she recalls the ‘pull’ coming from, and then again from the office building to where her sister had finally escaped the woods.“But... can I call her, really quick and check?She’d remember more accurately, I think.”

Scott’s expression goes from petulant straight to guilty when it’s Cherie’s daughter who answers.

“Mamaaaaa!” Comes a tiny, joyful voice from the speaker.“Ah you hooome yet?” But the woman’s voice just beyond that sounds just as excited. 

“Lemme talk, lemme talk!Ellie!Gimme my phone!Cherie?!  You’re alive?Please tell me you’re alive!” Comes the worried voice from the speaker.

“Oh my god, yes, I’m fiiiine!I _told_ you I would be,” Cherie gushes with a smiling sigh.

“So he didn’t kill you?I’m not down a sister?” The woman asks with evident relief.“Where are you?Please say you’re on your way back.Ellie’s missing you like crazy.And it’s only been six hours.Seriously.  _Crazy_.”Cherie’s face goes soft.

“Well you’re not talking to my ghost, so yeah.The mage was very understanding, actually.Listen, Reesa, remember the office park?Where you got yourself loose of the compulsion?Do you remember which direction that pull was coming from?”

“Yeeeahhhh.Why?Girl, what’s going on?You’re coming home tonight, right?Please say yes.I don’t like you being there with that freaky, whatever  _thing_  on the loose.”

Scott’s face has gone oddly quiet and thoughtful.

“‘Course I am, Ree.But if the mage can kill this thing?He needs to know everything we can remember about it.Like where it might’ve been, even back then.”

“Oh!  _Oh my Gods_ , is he right there?! Please don’t kill my sister, Mr. Mage, sir!Or me, for that matter? Please?We’ve got kids to raise!”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles mutters with a small face-palm while Melissa snorts, clearly hearing all the drama coming through the speaker loud and clear.“I’m not killing anybody!” He declares with a huff.“Unless it’s the evil entity!Anyone else pisses me off, I’ll just kick ‘em out of my territory, geez.I refuse to be a high school killer, teen angst-issues or not!I will _not_ be that statistic.I _refuse_.”

“He’s telling the truth, Ree,” Cherie murmurs, failing to bite back a smile.“But seriously, direction.Where?”

“Oh, thank gods,” Ree murmurs.“Right, um... okay, looking at the front of that building?  The one closest to the woods?  You showed him where that was, right?”

“Yep.”

“Good.If the front of the building’s twelve o’clock, the pull came from... like... between 1:30 and 2 o’clock?That’s as accurate as I can be, I think.And I _really_ hope it helps. That thing might’ve felt like seduction?  But it was _scary as hell_.”

“It does help,” Stiles murmurs, marking the direction and mentally calculating where the two points would cross, then cross-references it with his other mental magical map.  _Huh_.There’s another magic spot there, looks like.Like his hopefully-will-be-awesome-again tree?And maybe a cave system, too?“Huge help, actually,” he murmurs to Cherie.

“Thanks Ree, I’ll call you once I’m back on the road, ‘kay?Give my girl a kiss from me.”

“Will do.Talk to ya soon. _Very_ soon,” she reiterates.

“Very,” Cheries answers fondly, then hangs up, biting her lip a little when she looks at Stiles again.“Not that I’m not grateful for your understanding, but I’d like to get back to my family.And away from the county entirely if you plan to go poke that monstrosity in it’s nest,” Cherie says with a worried look at Stiles.

“Wait, Stiles?You _cannot_ go out there,” Scott insists, looking panicked.“Please, _please_ just let the pack handle it.”

“Jesus,” Stiles sigh-mutters, rubbing his face again.He flips off his anti-Scott amulet to glare at him impatiently.Scott looks almost grateful to lay eyes on him again, but Stiles is past caring because Scott needs to pull his head _out of his ass_.“The pack will _die_ , Scott, if _any_ of you go out there.Every single one of you will.But if it makes you feel any better, I won’t go there alone, but it sure as hell won’t be with any of you.”

“I’ll go with you,” Parrish says straight off with a firm nod.Stiles at least _tries_ not to sigh at him.

“No, you won’t,” Stiles says as firmly as one can to a gun-toting officer of the law.“Because I’m not sure you won’t be just as susceptible as any of the pack could be to the pull, since I’m not even sure which flavor of ‘not-totally-human’ you are.”

“Wait, really?” Cherie asks, looking shocked.Then she smiles at Parrish.“You’re a hellhound.”

“I’m a _what_?” Parrish asks, looking a little insulted.

“A guardian.Specifically, a guardian of the supernatural.Really, don’t let the name fool you.I think it mostly stems from your inherent imperviousness to fire,” Cherie nods.“I’ve met one, in Australia about a century ago.She was pretty much impervious to everything, at her age, but...” Cherie shrugs lightly.

“At her age?” Stiles repeats.Stiles has a suspicion, because if Cherie’s more than a century old...

“She was almost a hundred and fifty, native Aboriginal.She was called when the population down there boomed and suddenly there were a lot more ‘mythical’ creatures running around.Having a hellhound in an area actually keeps supernatural activity down, like a natural calming instinct,” Cherie informs them.

“Huh,” Stiles murmurs, then looks to Parrish. “Awesome!Guess you’re my wingman then.”

“Stiles, _no,_  you shouldn’t be out there at all!” Scott exclaims, re-rallying his argument.

“Between the two of us, Scott, _one_ of us can drop a hundred sunlight bombs on the damned thing and the _other one_ can growl at it like a cranky puppy,” Stiles bites out.

“And there’s no stronger force, supernaturally speaking, than a mage,” Cherie adds, leaning around Stiles to give Scott an odd look.“And he’s _way_ more supernatural than you are, wolf.You’re just bite-cursed.His power is encoded in his DNA.”

Scott looks incredulous.  _“He’s not a mage!!”_  He exclaims, throwing his arms up, then half-glares at Stiles with exasperation, like it’s Stiles that’s being ridiculous by believing in himself.Or by just existing.Or something.“Just because you use magic doesn’t _make you_ magic!”

But Stiles isn’t arguing now... because Scott’s aura’s doing something _weird_.“I’d love to hear that explanation, actually.Wow me,” he directs Scott and focuses his inner eye a little closer, squinting at Scott.

Scott huffs, but complies.“You are _not_ supernatural,” he says slowly, like Stiles is being dense.“If you were, you’d never have problems using magic like you do.”

“What makes a mage a mage is _genetic_ , Scott,” Stiles says flatly, still watching Scott’s aura flare up a bit oddly.“Like the color of my eyes is genetic.  And my magic only goes weird around you, mostly.You had trouble controlling your wolf side when you first got bit, too.  It doesn’t make you any less of a werewolf, clearly.”

“Stiles! You— You make potions!” Scott exclaims, throwing his hands up, like that fact somehow settles it.

“And?” Stiles demands, chilling a bit.“I also do things that defy the known laws of physics, Scott.”

“Really?Like what?!” Scott spits out, crossing his arms in a belligerent way.

“Like reversing gravity to stick someone to the ceiling, for instance.Or, maybe, ya know, _disapperating_ people,” Stiles grinds out, then snaps his fingers in a pointed way.Scott vanishes before he even has time to look surprised.

“ _Stiles!_ ” Melissa exclaims while Parrish’s eyebrows pop up.“Where?!  _Where_ did you just send him?” She demands with wide-eyed worry.

“Well, if my ‘fake’ magic had it’s way? _Narnia._ (Cherie snorts quietly.) “My aim’s better though — I dropped him on the roof of the loft.”Stiles shrugs, feeling dejected alllll over again, then winces and looks back to Cherie.“Which means... he’ll probably be telling the others you’re here soon, and they don’t exactly associate with me anymore, so....”

Cherie nods, looking a little sad for him again.“I need to go anyhow.But thank you, _really_ , for understanding about everything that happened before.”

“No worries.After this thing is gone and your little girl’s got her control, feel free to come back, as far as I’m concerned.”

Cherie nods with a genuine smile and slips out the door, then leans back in.“And if I can help again?Please, just call.”Stiles nods and kindly shoos her away and back to her family.

“So Scott’s okay?” Melissa asks again.

“Yes,” Stiles insists, but mentally checks up on him anyway to see that Cora’s unlatching the skylight window in the bedroom upstairs with an almost painful-looking eye roll so Scott can jump down and undoubtably tell everyone all the _wrong_ things that he took away from this experience.“Cora just let him in; no need to worry.”

Melissa relaxes with a nod, then gives Stiles a look. “Not to sound all Scott-like, but... do you really have to go out there?Or wherever ‘there’ is?”

Stiles sighs, shrugs, and gives her a rueful smile.“It’s either that or pack up and head east as fast as I can and then just wait for it to eventually head east too?”

Melissa rolls her eyes, but she’s biting back a worried smile too when she pulls him in for a mom-hug.“ _Be careful_.Call me when you’re back in the real world and let me know you’re okay?”

He squeezes her back and nods.“I will.So will Parrish,” Stiles adds, seeing the barely-hidden soft look Parrish currently has for Melissa.

Parrish nods dutifully (and maybe blushing a tiny bit?) and then opens his arms with a joking, dopey smile like he’s waiting for his own hug and Melissa snorts while Stiles steps out the door.He’s halfway down the hall when he realizes that since Parrish has to hurry to catch up a few seconds later, he might actually have gotten a Melissa hug after all.  _Interesting._

“Where to, then?” Parrish asks while they stride down the hallway.Stiles slows a little, thinking, then stops to frown at the still-soiled gurneys lining the walls, waves a quick hand to sterilize and reset them once the only nurse in the hall finally turns the other way, then nudges Parrish toward the exit again.

“Probably the office park,” Stiles tells him while they weave their way out through the waiting room.“I think I know where the pull was going, but I need to check the map in my jeep, first.Lead the way out there, would ya?I’ve never actually been.”

Parrish leads the way in his cruiser while Stiles breaks his rule on talking and driving again and calls Alan from the jeep to fill him in on their mystery entity, now minus a bit of it’s mystery.

“A nightmare djinn,” Alan murmurs.“That would explain a few things,” he agrees, “if the infants are that volatile.And you’re going out there now?”

Stiles sighs. “Yup, but I’ll text you once we’re back and then... I think we need to have a little talk about Scott, because I’m pretty sure someone’s been tampering with his mind.”

*************


	22. What’s left in the Cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a creepy, dark chapter with fairly creepy, dark imagery.
> 
> In Other Words: Active torture of the slowly rotting to death variety, maggots included.
> 
> You have been warned.
> 
> Also: Scott continues to be a douche, Derek’s acting a little weird, Parrish is not a mopey puppy and while Stiles might not be injured, he is really, really not okay. 
> 
> Also pt. 2: bears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a dark and stormy night here, so here! Have a dark and horrible chapter. :D

*************

Parrish is just as awed by Stiles’ nifty magical map as Kira and Danny both had been, poking lightly at the spot on the map where he and Stiles both stand now, clearly glowing red as two separate supernatural entities.Stiles gets the impression that up until now, Parrish still wasn’t especially convinced of his own ‘with perks’ attributes that he could now add to his ‘human’ status.Stiles will be looking up hellhounds later, because now he’s just curious as Parrish probably is.

Using the edge of Stiles’ Econ book, Parrish plot-marks the smaller map to (roughly) where they’d cross, given the ‘pull’ directions from both office building and motel.  As Stiles had surmised, it’s roughly in the zone of the ‘magic’ spot out there, looking kind of boring by comparison to his own once-nifty tree, but it’s their best lead so far, so... 

Since they’re only half a mile from Hale territory, Stiles swallows his pride (and his stupid emotions) and calls Derek directly to warn him to steer clear for the pack’s safety.  Shockingly (not), Derek doesn’t answer.  But, whatever, it’s not like Stiles needs his permission.

Stiles pulls out his bits of ‘hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ essentials for the hike: a new ash rope (maybe Parrish can use it like Danny can if needed?), a handful of mojo juices, water, and a few of the protein bars and chalky-tasting chocolate Ensures Stiles had picked up on sale early that morning, as well as his ‘mage mix’ for setting a few markers along the way.  Parrish just nabs a single bottle of water, texts the sheriff to let him know they’d be out tracking down a lead on the entity, double-checks his gun (though Stiles doubts they’ll encounter anything that would actually be wounded or killed by a mere gun) and they set out with just under three hours ‘til sundown.

“So... what do you think will be out here?” Parrish asks after a few minutes walking.

Stiles aims for a large sycamore and pulls out his sack of mage mix before answering.  “No idea.  But it’s old, I think, because that thought’s been catching on the edge of my brain for a while.  It’s old _and_  new.  _Both_  old _and_  new.  Now I think maybe it’s actually ‘both old and young’.  Infant young, maybe.  Just not an infant djinn anymore, if it ever completely was.”  

Stiles marks the tree, mentally checks the map, then re-adjusts their course a little further west.  Parrish doesn’t comment, but Stiles can almost feel the guy’s mental gears turning.  Seems he’s just not turning over what Stiles had thought he was.

“So... what’s actually going on with you and Scott these days?” Parrish asks bluntly with a slightly odd edge to the question.  Stiles is thinking it’s a ‘Melissa is worried about both her boys and would love to get the real 411’ type of edge.

“I’d rather not say,” Stiles tells him just as bluntly after they’ve made their way to the midpoint of a rocky ravine where Stiles lays another marker.  “It’s largely between me and Scott, but is almost definitely the death toll sounding out the true end to our ‘blood brothers 4eva and eva’ days.  And it’s been building for a while,” he adds with a small shrug, trying to ignore the ache that comes with that thought.  Parrish nods, looking a little disappointed Stiles isn’t trusting him that far yet.

 _Yet_ , because Stiles knows Parrish is here for the long haul; he can _feel_ that he is — which has Stiles thinking about the next most natural point because Parrish will be here for the long haul almost the same way Melissa will.

“So... what’s going on with you and Melissa these days?” Stiles asks five minutes later, side-eying the cop and then smirking at the blush that accompanies Parrish’s adorably flustered protests.

“It’s not like that,” Parrish insists. (While totally blushing.) “It’s not!” Parrish all but yelps at the look Stiles gives him.

“Uh huh... you just keeeep telling yourself that, dude.” Stiles huffs with a little smile, then tags another tree while Parrish huffs back. (While still _totally_ blushing.) “She deserves someone good,” Stiles tells him once the worst of Parrish’s pink has faded.  “And you... you seem good.”

There’s an (almost) easy silence between them for the next ten minutes until Parrish finally ‘fesses up.

“Pretty sure she thinks she’s too old for me,” he sighs, looking morose.

Stiles eyes him up and down, assessing.  “Not _that_ young,” he decides. “Mid twenties?”

Parrish winces a for a second, then maybe smirks a little back, shaking his head.  “You really think the city would even temporarily award ‘Acting Sheriff’ to a mid-twenty-something?”

Stiles ponders that.  “Fair point,” he allows after a minute.  “So how old are you?  Because you look young enough to get carded, maybe.  For _cigarettes_ ,” he adds with a grin as they climb the next rise.

Parrish huffs again, but almost in agreement, this time.  “Thirty-three.”

Stiles takes the time (at the top of the rise) to stop and stare.  “Daaaamn.  Good genetics?”

“No idea,” Parrish admits.  “I was a drop-off orphan.”

Stiles nods, then checks his mental map again and waves a little toward the left.  “Well thirty-three to forty-two isn’t a huge gap.  Unless you just haven’t found a way to bring up your age in casual conversation?” Stiles guesses.  

Parrish shrugs, looking mopey again. “Even still, I think I pretty much killed any remaining chances I had to convince her otherwise when I pulled my weapon on her kid on reflex alone.”

Stiles rolls his eyes because that’s another fair point.  Or, it would be for anyone _not Melissa_.

Stiles gives him his best Yoda voice. “Ah, young Jedi.  So little still you know,”  Parrish snorts, flashing a smile.  “No, for reals?  Melissa will respect anyone who can look the supernatural in the eye, hold back the almost inevitable flinch and still have the guts to _not_ run screaming.

“That you pulled a gun on her own out of control kid when said kid would’ve almost certainly maimed an unarmed, peaceful woman probably means she’ll respect you _more_ , if anything.  Besides, you never even took the safety off and looked more like you meant to shoot him in the ass, rather than anywhere vital, which I totally approve of, myself.  A bullet to the butt might actually do him more good than one of Melissa’s famous lectures.”

Parrish pauses to give Stiles an impressed sort of look. “You are almost _scarily_ perceptive, you know that?”

“It has been mentioned,” Stiles says with a nod, aiming for another sycamore tree, but his steps slow a little when the chatter of bird song and insects and the random squirrel chitter of the forest dials down just a touch.  Stiles marks the tree and checks his internal map again.  “We’re close,” he murmurs over at Parrish.

Not that he needed to, it seems, because it looks like Parrish is frowning at the rocky ledge to their left, backing away a little and narrowing his eyes.

“Find something?” Stiles asks, sealing up his mage mix and joining him to stare at—

“Okay, _that?_  That’s... kinda cool, actually.  Very Indiana Jones on the invisible bridge-ish.”  It actually is, too, because there’s only the faintest of discrepancies between one side of the cave opening and and other overlapping edge of the rock that hides it.  Invisible in plain sight.

“Cool?  Maybe.  Weird?  _Definitely._ ” Parrish says, frowning.  “Because it wasn’t until I was asking myself ‘what exactly is out here to find?’ that I even saw this at all...  Like it was just waiting for me to ask.”

Stiles gives him a half-smile and a nod.  “When it comes to the supernatural around here, there’s really no such thing as coincidence,” Stiles informs him.  “So... open sesame?  Let’s go see what’s the what.”

*************

Parrish (ridiculously) insists on going in first.  Stiles can’t seem to convince him otherwise and they’re losing daylight.

“Fine,” Stiles huffs.  “After your funeral I’ll be sure to tell Melissa you bravely and stupidly insisted on taking a supernatural bullet for me.”

Parrish rolls his eyes a little and, without another word, creeps through the slender opening sideways, gun out and ready for whatever might be within.  Stiles is close on his heals, backpack dragging along beside him, too bulky to keep on his back.

Stiles needn’t have worried over a bullet, really, because there’s no one besides Parrish with any kind of a bullet, supernatural or otherwise, in the cave.  But there _is_ a werewolf.  

Parrish, though stalwart and tough, gags at the sight almost straight away, but pulls himself together (mostly) three seconds after, wrist held uselessly up to his nose.  Useless, because there is no scent, good or bad (and that’s a _true fucking blessing_ , considering), but that’s maybe a side effect of the ‘rotten vegetation’ dark magic that’s clearly at work to hide the nearly _suffocating_  amount of bad-vibe-ness that’s practically coating the walls to conceal what’s here.  A quick check of his mental map says he and Parrish aren’t even here, let alone Kali.

Kali, or more accurately, what’s left of her, is laying in a shriveled heap bound by a circle of mountain ash, barrier elm, with an outer layer of something else that looks and feels like homemade juju of the _extraordinarily_  nasty variety that all but screams ‘GO THE FUCK AWAY OR DIE’.  Stiles has difficulty even _looking_ at it, it’s so visually poisonous— almost in a psychic sense.

After a quick glance (that Stiles already knows he’ll never be able to brain-bleach away) around the cave and the other two empty, bloody circles that are each surrounded by bits of... _debris,_ Stiles thinks Kali’s probably wishing she’d never _had_  toes for claws to ever have _been_ in.  There’s a huge pile of bloody toe claws that look to have been ripped off over by the cave wall to the left, not too far from another bloody pile of fangs mixed in with finger claws and the collective mass of them all is practically burying one of the many candles that are the cave’s only light source.

Behind them, the cave opening is just as secreted and near-invisible as it had been on the outside.  But the cave itself is pretty large, ceiling at least thirteen feet high in most places.  Stiles tries to study the cave as in-detail as he can just so he won’t have to see the disfigured and still-living corpse on the floor.  Whoever the caster is?  He or she _hates_ Kali, that much is clear.  

Kali, in a bizarrely different (and still freakishly familiar) way, looks worse than even Derek had while he was rotting and shrieking rabid insanity out in the woods.  It’s not just that Kali’s desiccated to the point of near-mummy-ness, but quite a bit of her is oddly gangrenous, too; scalp, one half of her face, both hands (but oddly only about half of her fingers), one ( _jesus_ ) sagging breast and from this angle, maybe more than half her back and pretty much all of her visible joints are swollen and oozing rot.  Stiles tries not to think about what else might be rotting near the bikini zone, but he’s pretty sure—  

Yeah, so... there’s a patchy spots of wolfsbane rot mixed in and oozing black sludge, but still quite a bit of the damage is just straight, human-grade gangrene, which might mean that just _parts_ of her have been cursed human, or something; her feet, especially, are so green-black and oozing, their masses look more like bloated, fleshy balloons.  If balloons were filled with maggots, that is.  And the maggots are either eating her alive or keeping those two swollen stumps from dying completely and Stiles is torn on which would be the better option.  One of Kali’s eyes is in about the same shape as her feet and  _that_ , finally, is what switches Stiles’ emotional sensors off entirely.  He might qualify as a sociopath right now and ironically, if he could feel glad about anything at all, he’d probably feel glad about that, right this second.

But it _helps_ because now Stiles can actually ignore the horror and focus as hard as he needs to on Kali’s other eye enough to see a dim flicker of red, faint but definitely still there, at the very back of the pupil.  No matter what evils this wretched creature had _ever_ committed, no one on this plane of existence deserves _this_ treatment.

“Kali,” Stiles murmurs and watches that tiny spark of alpha red flare the tiniest bit brighter.

“You knew her?” Parrish asks, face a little pale and sweat-shiny.

“Not exactly, no,” Stiles murmurs tonelessly.  “I’ve been told of her but only met her the once when she and her other alpha buddies turned up at Derek’s to torture him into submission.”  Of course, seeing all this, Stiles really needs to reevaluate his parameters of what ‘torture’ is.  There has to be a stronger word for this level.

“Alpha?  She was a werewolf?” Parrish asks, still wrist to nose, which is odd, because there’s still nothing but dry dust to smell.  Maybe it’s a comfort gesture?

“Was?”  Stiles blinks at him, then at Kali before he realizes the obvious.  “If you’re gonna hurl, do it over there,” Stiles instructs blandly, waving a hand at an empty-ish spot to their right.  “She _is_  a werewolf — an alpha werewolf, which is how she’s still alive.”  Parrish might dry-gag then for a second or two, but actually keeps his water down.  Yay?  Stiles doesn’t care much, really.

With the other suspiciously (mostly) empty, yet bloody, circles in the cave, Kali is now their best source of information because no one puts _this_ much effort into harming another sentient creature without cause of some kind or another.  And who knows?  Maybe Kali will provide, just for the sake of revenge.  Stiles squats down as close to the circle of toxic magic as he dares.

“Kali,” he calls again, pushing the faintest bit of power into the name.  Probably the less magic he uses in here with all the bad juju, the better.  Kali’s remaining eyeball rolls slowwwwwwly upward to meet his and the red flares a tiny bit brighter.  “Would you like me to kill you?” He asks bluntly and ignores Parrish’s sharp inhale from beside him and is unsurprised when Kali’s eye trembles a little, then slowly blinks closed with what feels like ‘ _god, yes please_ ’ at him with a general ‘feel’ of desperation and misery.  Perfectly understandable.

“She’s going to die either way, Parrish,” Stiles says off to the side, though he keeps his eyes on Kali’s.  “For severe crimes against humanity and for slaughtering her own pack for power.”  Parrish seems to go a little still and blank at that, but Stiles has returned his attention to the floor and it’s ‘bad juju’ circle of doom.  Kali’s eye is intense, somehow, watching him.  

“What?” He asks, tilting his head and wondering if there’s a way to help her speak.  Tricky, since she doesn’t seem to have a tongue left.  Her eye shows frustration in it’s micro-twitches.  What was the last thing he said?  “Your pack?  Someone from one of your packs did this?”

The eye blinks a yes. 

“But this level of magic... an emissary?”  

Kali blinks yes.  

Stiles frowns.  “I’d heard that you and the others killed your emissaries, too, along with all your betas.”

Kali’s eye wavers a little, then half-blinks.

“You tried to kill yours,” Stiles surmises.

The eye blinks, but wavers, just staring away at the same time.  Then the eye tracks back up to Stiles’ face and looks... ohhh... right.

“You couldn’t finish it... because you cared for them.  You loved them,” he guesses.

The eye blinks down and holds there, low and shamed-looking.

“And this is... what, their _revenge_?” Parrish asks stepping closer to Stiles’ side.

Kali’s eye opens again and tracks up to Parrish’s face, then wavers and trails back to Stiles and blinks again in a way that says ‘Well???’.

“Was your emissary a man?” Stiles asks, ignoring that look for a moment.

Kali’s eye trembles, but doesn’t blink.  No.  A woman, then.

“And I take it Ennis and Deucalion are both dead already?” Stiles asks, his eyes unconsciously jumping over to the two empty circles beyond Kali.

Kali’s eye looks frustrated at her continued existence and blinks again in a grumpy-looking way.

“I’m sorry, really, but we need just a few answers first,” Stiles tells her, and actually _is_ sorry, as much as he can be right now.  Because the sooner he’s out of this cave, the sooner he can focus on digging his way out of the PTSD this is _abso_ - _fucking_ - _lutely_ going to give him once his mind finally lets him _feel_ any of this again.  The whiplash is probably gonna suck.

The eye narrows a millimeter and blinks again.

“Will Alan Deaton know who your emissary was?”

The eye wavers.  No, then.  Or, uncertain?

“Okay... would Satomi Ito know?”

The eyes keeps wavering, looking frustrated again.

But who else?  Someone who was arou—

“Would Peter Hale know?”

The eye blinks, and seems to hold another message Stiles can’t get even a _little_ read on.  Stiles frowns, thinking.

“Is the emissary— is she using your torture for some kind of a spell?”

The eye wavers, then blinks and gives Stiles an intensely direct look.

“The spell... would come after the torture?” He guesses.

Kali blinks another yes and begins to look a little strained, the few still-working muscles of her body tensing up before she looks outright pained and panicked as a portion of her leg begins to ripple and bubble under the thin, dry surface and Stiles stands up in a rush, backing away just before the leg begins to darken, then blacken, then just tears open to spill out a fleshy handful of bloody maggots.  A sound chokes out Kali’s throat that would probably be a full-throated scream of agonized horror if her own vocal chords hadn’t likely already torn and re-torn and re-re-torn over and over to the point of not healing anymore.

Stiles is not ashamed of his reaction; even (mostly) unfeeling, he loses all his hard-sipped water and what-the-fuck-ever he’d had for lunch (he may seriously  _never_ eat again after today) in the corner that Parrish ducks into as soon as Stiles is done.  While Parrish is busy taking his turn at the wall, Stiles determinedly studies the outer barrier of Kali’s prison ring because this needs to stop, _now._  It’s _astoundingly_ complex, once he gets past the ‘fuck you’ psychic visual; the glyphs and symbols at it’s base roll and weave around themselves, like a hair braid, except that each strand is it’s own flavor of pain for whoever crosses it.  But it’s only that.  Torture levels of pain and nothing more.  If there’s anything Stiles is well-equipped at handling these days, it’s pain.

“O-kaaay... let’s give this a go, then,” he breathes out in a mutter, left hand reaching forward.

Holy.  _Fuuuuuuck_.

It’s like what he’d imagine dipping his hand in boiling hot _acid_ would feel like.  He grits his teeth and shoves a little further, groans when the somewhat familiar pain of bones twisting and shattering sinks in on top of the acid, then shoves again and now he’s _so_ glad his stomach’s already empty when both those first pains are actually _eclipsed_ by what he swears is the sensation of his skin and his bare, raw nerve endings being peeled away one slow millimeter at a time, then _finally_ , stops for a different reason, queasy and breathless.

Barrier Elm.  Specifically, barrier elm he didn’t lay himself.  

He shouldn’t be able to cross it.

Yeah? Well, he’s already had a total bitch of a day (this cave of _fucking wrongness_  included) so let’s just fuck that magic theory straight up the ass sideways, then, for all the good it does.

He narrows his eyes, then narrows his mental-magical vision down, somehow, to a microscopic level and forces his magic forward again, squeezes it between the molecules and widens the gaps, bit by bit, then dust mote by dust mote, then grain by grain and presses it through until he has enough space to simply _wedge_ the circle open, nullifying it.  The mountain ash practically moves itself aside like it was just waiting for permission and Stiles grabs ahold (of a thankfully solid, unsoiled chunk) of Kali’s bony arm and tugs her slight frame out of the circle entirely, almost going light-headed with relief when the bones and skin of his hands feel like they remake themselves and the pain eases back before vanishing entirely.

The downside?   _Now_ Stiles can smell her.

Kali’s eye is looking at him with pure desperation now and Stiles hadn’t really thought this part through, he supposes, because he hasn’t got much with him to actually kill her with.  He can strangle her with the rope, he supposes, but that will feel awfully personal later (or sooner — _too_ soon because he can feel the weight of this choice and it’s already getting heavier) on and he’s _not_ an assassin, not an _executioner_.  Jokes of teenage angst aside, _he’s not a killer_.

“Stiles.”  Parrish’s voice is calm and quiet but it’s not until he steps in front of Stiles to cut off Stiles’ view of Kali’s agonized, pleading eye that Stiles can finally look up and see Parrish’s set expression.  “If it _needs_ to be done, _I’ll_ do it.”  Stiles can see that Parrish means it and could maybe even live with it, but—

Stiles just shakes his head, then a little more, and then just a little after that while just forcing his lungs to draw in air enough for speech.  “ _No—_ I _need_ to.  I can’t ask someone to do this if I can’t do it.  I don’t have the right.”

Parrish’s expression softens and hardens all at once.  “I know.  But you’re _not_ asking.  I’m telling you that I _am_ doing this.  You can get the next one if, God forbid, there ever has to _be_  a next one.”

“ _No,_ ” Stiles says a little more firmly, swallowing hard and straightening his shoulders.  “No, if I can’t do this, it doesn’t get done.  If I ever have to do this again, God forbid, I need— I need to know my first was an act of _mercy_.  It’s the only way I can _live_ with it— the only way I can live with _myself_.”  Stiles _knows_ it’s true by the way the balls of mountain ash and liquid wolfsbane that Stiles definitely _hadn’t_  brought with him are already hovering in disconnected blobs over his open palm.  

But Parrish grips Stiles’ shoulder and just holds on while his calm, knowing eyes search Stiles’ for a long minute before nodding with understanding; he finally steps back.

Stiles kneels down close in front of Kali and makes sure she _sees_  him, _hears_ him.  

“Kali, look at me.”  Stiles swallows hard while that pained eye tracks back up to his face.  “I need you to know this, alright?  This isn’t for power, and it’s not for revenge.  It’s not even for justice; it’s for mercy.  Do you understand?”  

Somehow, Kali nods her head a single centimeter up and down, her single remaining eye looking so tired and grateful and weirdly at peace.  Stiles wonders how long it’s been for her to feel at peace about anything.  It helps a little, that thought, that he can give her this one final thing.

Stiles brings his hand forward, wills the poison into her, forces it to spread to every last remaining cell until her aura fades into nothingness, swift and final.  The world tilts a little when he stands, then steadies when he grabs his pack off the floor, and sharpens as he strides quickly back towards the exit with Parrish close on his heels.  Neither of them look back.

*************

Stiles has no idea how long they were in that god-awful place, but it’s close to dusk when they get out.  Parrish grips Stiles by the shoulder again as he passes him, squeezes once, and takes the lead on walking them back the way they came.  Stiles is glad because mercy or not, his head’s in no good shape to be making decisions after all that because he’d just killed someone.

 _Fuck_. 

He _killed_ someone.

The sudden needle-sharp furious buzz under his skin reminds him that evil generally doesn’t care _what_ shape his mind’s in, and the oily-slick _roar_ that echoes out of the woods behind Stiles is enraged, undergrowth and trees groaning under the strain of whatever it is that’s now crashing through the trees straight at Stiles and Parrish and it’s a rush, ( _oh yes it is_ ) to have his mind and his emotions and his magic suddenly snap back into synch with each other.  

Stiles grips Parrish’s shoulder this time and between one step and the next, blinks them back to their cars in the (thank god for small mercies) nearly empty parking lot just as the lot’s nightly security lights all switch on.  But still only _nearly_ empty — of everything except for the two extra cars and eight of the Hale pack all parked out there like eight incredibly _stupid_  sitting ducks.

The Porsche and the Camaro are both parked five rows back from the cruiser and jeep; Lydia, Jackson, Allison, and Isaac are all straightening up from where they’d been leaning against the Porsche looking suddenly uncomfortable that they’d had no warning of suddenly appearing mages (or deputies maybe).

Boyd, Erica, Scott and Derek are leaning against the Camaro, either looking nervous and worried (Erica and Boyd) or glaring a little (Derek and Scott) with arms crossed like they’re waiting for their own teenage, rule-breaking shit-disturbers to get home from the party they’d snuck out to attend _just_ so they can lecture them on their terrible life choices.  And _really?_   The latter pair have _no_ fucking right, in that regard.  Well, at the moment, none of them do, because their terrible life choices are about to meet the result of Stiles’ own terrible choices that Stiles can still feel buzzing under his skin and headed this way.  

Derek especially looks like a grade-A dick right now with his fucking ‘overlord stance’, face set into Grumpy Cat super-mode and grinding his teeth at Stiles like it’s all _Stiles’_ fault Derek’s out here at all.  Beside him, Scott looks uncomfortable but also angry and determined, like he’s maybe just here to pick up their conversation from earlier where Stiles had cut it off with a literal snap of his fingers.

But, whatever.  If any of them get in his way, Stiles’ll just snap them back to the loft too.  Or maybe into a jail cell at the station.  Whichever suits the moment.

“What can I do?” Parrish demands, eyes watchful of the woods as he backs toward the jeep.

“Uhh... Any chance I can convince you to _run_?” Stiles asks hopefully, throwing his backpack into the jeep but conjures one of the Ensures back out, shaking it up and chugging it down as fast as he can while he climbs onto the jeep’s hood.

“ _No,_ Stiles.  So what can I do while I’m _here_?” Parrish demands, sounding annoyed.

Stiles, still chugging calories, waves Parrish up onto the hood with him and lifts the ‘unseen’ cover spell off the roof to show the multitude of boxes of ugly painted Christmas ornaments stored up there and he hurriedly starts yanking lids off of, while (yay multitasking!) glaring back at the available pack for their supreme stupidity at being out here at all, so close to full dark.  Stiles had thought Lydia, at the _very_  least, knew better.  It seems Peter and Cora maybe _did_ know better because they don’t seem to be here at all.

Stiles finishes his drink just as the noise level in the trees can evidently be heard by the pack, some of who look like—  Yup.  The _sitting_ ducks are now _marching_  ducks and heading this way, looking all ‘I’ll save you, fair damsel!’.

“Stay back, you guys,” Stiles warns.  “It woke up cranky today.”  Derek holds an arm out to stall the others, but looks like he’s _hating_ the choice (Of trusting Stiles? Or something?) but it does keep everyone back.  Scott doesn’t look like he plans to wait for long, though.

“What about me?” Lydia calls over, earning her a ‘what the fuck?’ look from Jackson and chorus of ‘Lydia, no!’ from almost everyone else except Derek himself (who’s already seen her in action).

Stiles just shakes his head because this doesn’t feel like a Lydia issue this time but conjures up a little pile of mojo juices anyway, then just magically hauls Parrish up onto the hood too from where he’d paused next to the front grill to listen to the forest.  Stiles doesn’t bother trying to lecture him for staying, (he’s a fully-grown hellhound, after all) his own attention on the shadowed tree line and whatever it is that’s still crashing straight towards them.

“Melissa told me about these,” Parrish comments idly (though his nerves are clearly showing what with his hand on his gun), plucking up one of the painted globes up from the closest box to examine while they both wait for the train of noise in the woods to catch up.  Stiles is too startled by the next roar that comes out of the forest to answer.

Because that... wasn’t exactly an _entity_ roar.

Nope.  

That, his eyes and ears tell him a second later, would be the oily-eyed, mother-fuckin’ _bear_ that roared.  Except... bears, _plural_.  There’s three of them, and all three are way, _way_ bigger than anything normally in this part of California.  And that’s just _so_ wrong, really, because one of them looks like it just crawled up out of it’s own grave with chunks of ragged, rotting fur dangling down from one front shoulder and off it’s back leg, and it’s jowls sagging low to show off diseased gums and too-big, too-sharp teeth, with oily-slick puddle- _blobs_ sunken deep into the near-hollow eye sockets weeping pus and probably other fluids that Stiles would rather not name.

A goddamn _zombie..._   _BEAR_. 

Seriously?  ... _Seriously_. 

His... fucking... _life._

Stiles rings them all in ash as soon as they’re fully into the lot and they all stop short, roaring again and slashing ineffectually at the barrier with dinner-plate-sized, clawed feet.  Even at a distance, it’s _highly_  unnerving.

“Well, that’s...” Parrish trails off to just stare, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed and hand _still_ on his gun.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs at him, nodding a little, then back at the bears.  “There’s just... really _no_ words, sometimes.”

“Should I...” Parrish half-pulls his gun, but stops when Stiles shakes his head and waves him off.

“No, no...  We just need to exorcise them is all.  I think.  Besides, I’m pretty sure the one on the left proves that death won’t necessarily stop them anymore.”  Stiles sighs out a little exhaustedly and crams the mojo juices into his hoodie pocket and takes a box of ornaments with him when he hops carefully down off the hood.

“The pack will handle this,” Scott grits out through clenched teeth, storming past Stiles and Parrish and on toward the barrier, glowing, angry eyes set on the bears.  “You can leave now.  We have it covered.”

Right.  Of course they do, now that _Stiles_ has done all the catching. _Not._

“Why, Derek!” Stiles mutters to Scott’s retreating back. “You look an awful lot like Scott these days, except with bonus ‘I’m the alpha’ persona.”

The others have followed Scott over from their cars, snorting and shaking their heads at Scott; even Derek rolls his eyes heavenward at Scott’s lame ‘tough guy’ attitude — but Derek doesn’t argue it either, which is weird.

“I’m okay with letting Scott handle the zombie bear — just sayin’,” Jackson mumbles and Stiles twitches a grin in his direction before sighing at Scott.

“Really, Scott?” Stiles asks dryly.  “You have some experience exorcising entity evil out of the local wildlife?  Or, out of _anything_ , for that matter?”

“They don’t need exorcising!” Scott snaps.  “They need killing!  They nearly killed you just now!”

“From thirty feet away, Scott?” Stiles asks blandly.  “ _You_ came a lot closer to killing me after you first got bit.  Like three _inches_ away, instead of thirty feet,” Stiles stresses, waving a hand at the _sizable_ distance between bears and jeep.  “Aren’t you glad no one slaughtered you for it?”  Stiles isn’t even mad now.  No, he’s too busy feeling sorry for Scott and his numerous delusions to be anything like angry.  Someone has well and truly warped Scott’s meat-headed brain.

 _“We. Don’t. Need. You.”_ Scott scrapes out a word at a time but is quickly silenced by the chorus of angry growls directed at him, including both Allison and Lydia’s very human snarled protests.  Scott just huffs and rolls his eyes like he’s exasperated with the whole lot of them, then goes back to glowering at Stiles in silence.

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Stiles says softly, trying (and possibly failing) not to flinch and freeze over again, “what with all the leaking my personal business to the school.  Thanks for that, by the way.  How’d your mom take that when you told her?”

That question is easily answered when Scott’s eyes widen and his face pales with a nervous air and he’s carefully _not_ looking at Parrish, who’s own eyes are narrowing on Scott with renewed suspicion.

“Didn’t tell her, huh?  I’m betting there’s _a lot_ she doesn’t know by now,” Stiles says conversationally.  “Speaking from some experience here, Scotty, I wouldn’t wait too long to fill her in.  Once that trust is gone, it’s damn hard to earn it back, if not outright impossible.”

Scott drops his gaze to his shoes, grumpy but silent, because no matter how warped his mind might be, there’s some things that will always hit a little closer to home, like the probability of pissing Melissa off to the near  _god-smiting_ levels she’d be at if she knew even half the shit Scott’s been saying, let alone doing, when it comes to Stiles.  Actually, most of the pack seem to be studying their own feet looking somewhat uncomfortable too, except for Lydia, who’s smirking in a ‘You tell ‘im, Stiles!’ sort of way.

Stiles just huffs out a shrug and continues on to the still-grunting, roaring bears, tipping mojo juices out into the air to ball up in a hovering blob above his hand (and hears Isaac’s soft ‘wow’), then splits it into three hovering blobs and _wills it_ into the three roaring mouths like he’d done to Kali. (He flinches, just a little, at the reminder.)  The live bears just sort of cough-grunt, then stumble back, then fall into glaring heaps of pained, angry, possessed mammal.  The dead one drops last, it’s body shaking and sort of wriggling (and _god_ does it stink), it’s skin bubbling in a way that’s _far_ too reminiscent of Kali’s final pre-death moments for Stiles’ still-tender mental state to deal with and he trips backward a few steps, shuddering and queasy.

“Ugh.  Toooo much, too soon,” he mutter-chokes, rapid-swallowing the slick moisture flooding into his mouth while Parrish nods hearty agreement beside him.  Stiles shakes it off as best he can while he levitates two of the six ornaments (it’s so stupidly _easy_ , now) from the box to hover over the middle of the ash ring, and directs the other four ornaments around the outer edges of the circle.  He gives the (mostly slack-jawed) pack a meaningful, squinty look before he drops them all. 

Stiles hurries forward into the gathered explosion of light to deep-freeze the worms that come slithering out, all three easily _twice_ the size of the one that’d crawled out of Danny’s mother before he hurries a good fifteen _back_ again (the pack wisely follow suit in the other direction) when the two living bears manage to regain their feet in the slowly fading light.

The first bear back up wobbles a little like it’s dizzy, shakes out it’s mammoth head, growl-roars in Scott’s direction (Scott looks hilariously _affronted_  by this), then barrels on past them all at a solid clip out toward the road and the (hopefully) safer northern forest beyond.  The other, larger one trundles a little Stiles’ way and Stiles isn’t the only one who’s suddenly super nervous because it looks like a something-ginormously-huge-pounder of a bear.  But it only sniffs in Stiles’ direction from nine feet away for a second, large wet nose wriggling, gives a weirdly glad-sounding grunt, then followers after the first bear.  The remaining dead bear, thankfully, doesn’t do anything more than reek in the late-summer, evening heat.

“If you’d like to handle that one now, Scott, you’re welcome to,” Stiles invites then ignores the nasty look Scott aims at him but doesn’t miss the bitten off smiles of Jackson, Erica, Isaac, Boyd and (mildly), Allison.  Stiles just shrugs, waves a hand at the bear and it vanishes, buried deep under the trees at the edge of the parking lot.  It could dig itself out, maybe, if it gets repossessed, but it’d take a while.  Stiles grabs the empty ornament box and heads back to the jeep with Parrish at his shoulder like a guard and the pack, oddly, drifting along behind them like lonely, curious sheep.  Stiles, once he notices, turns to frown at Derek, who’s closest.

“Problem?”

Derek shakes his head, but frowns at the same time.  “Why didn’t you call us to handle the djinn?” Derek demands, arms crossing again, though a little nervously, maybe?  Stiles narrows his eyes at him and Parrish hides whatever expression he has off to the side with a soft cough.

“Have you checked your caller ID or your messages, Derek?” Stiles counters calmly.  Derek frowns more, pulling out his cell phone, frown deepening when he sees that yes, Stiles actually _had_ called.  “See?  Not my bad when it’s you who doesn’t answer.  Besides, the djinn asked for me, not you.”

“You specifically?” Derek shoves his phone back into his pocket and frowns even more.  His face, like Chris’, might actually stick that way if he keeps it up for much longer.

“I believe the term she gave Melissa was ‘the mage, Stiles’.  So, yes?  But I did call you after to tell you to maybe keep away of this end of your territory until I texted you an all clear, just in case.  You, Alpha Hale, didn’t answer.  Anything else?”

Derek huffs, though lightly.  “Why were you out here at all if it was a djinn problem?”

Seriously?  This is what has Derek’s dander up?

“I can see that you’re seriously asking me that, but _huh?_   This _isn’t_  a djinn problem.  It’s an _entity_ problem that the djinn was willing to help with once she was already here.  The djinn risked a lot to come back and make her apologies for accidentally hurting Erica and Lydia while she was busy running from you and Boyd, that night at the hospital.  Since I was reading her aura and could tell she meant every word, I promised I’d pass the apology along.”  Stiles grabs both Erica and Lydia’s gazes.  “Auras can’t lie, at all.  She totally freaked out when she pushed the door open and you guys came at her.  She also said she stayed to make sure you were both stable before she booked it.”

“And you believed her?” Erica asks, pulling a face.

“Tell me two truths and a lie.  I don’t need to hear heartbeats to suss out which is which.”

Erica’s lip twitches, but she gamely thinks about it.  “I bought new shoes last week and haven’t worn them yet.  Superman’s my favorite comic series and I’ve wanted to punch Scott in the nose no less than ten times today.”  Boyd’s lips twitch into a tiny smile and Scott scowls at the ground some more.

“Thank god Superman’s not your favorite.  I’d be worried about your comic tastes, if it were,” Stiles huffs.  “The djinn meant every word.  _Really_.”

Erica smile-nods with a micro-shrug.  “Happens, I guess.”  Lydia nods beside her, already accepting Stiles’ word.

“What was that worm-thing?” Isaac asks nervously, looking back over at the now bear-less, empty lot.

“Well... yeah, that’s one of our newer-ish problems,” Stiles sighs, giving Parrish a hopeful glance. 

Parrish nods and explains the possession bit while Stiles hauls himself back onto the hood to close up the ornament boxes and lay the unseen cover spell back over the roof, his every move watched keenly by an increasingly-upset Scott.  Stiles isn’t the only one giving Scott worried and wary looks anymore.  Derek’s pretty much ignoring Scott’s existence at this point, though; maybe he’s finally just as done with Scott’s issues, regardless of cause, as Stiles is.

Everyone’s looking suitably freaked out by the time Parrish is done recounting the chilling tale of the entity-worm-infected chainsaw neighbor.

“And this can happen to anyone?” Boyd rumbles, looking as serious as Stiles has ever seen him.  “Should I be sending my grandma and my sisters out of town?  I don’t want them hurt or infected.   _Ever_ , even if it _can_ be undone.”

“Or my parents,” Erica adds.

“Or mine.”  Even Jackson looks a little queasy at the possibility.

Stiles blows out a breath, chewing on his lip a little, then nods decisively, hopping off the hood again and heading for the trunk and his duffel, because he really should’ve done this by now anyway, probably.  “I don’t think it can happen to just anyone,” he admits, digging through his pile of _everything_.  “I think those who are compromised in some way are the ones most likely to get affected or infected — like anyone who’s suffering from severe lack of sleep.”  Stiles gives Allison a pointed look and she nods.

“Allison didn’t have one of those things in her!” Scott snaps, like Stiles had just accused her of something awful.

“Nope, she didn’t,” Stiles agrees patiently, which cuts off whatever Scott was set to rant about next.  “And I think that was only luck, considering just how exhausted she was.”  Stiles sighs, then straightens, eying both Allison and Derek (who shuffles uncomfortably in place), “I think those who are emotionally vulnerable in some way are the most susceptible.  Allison had a fucker of a year and Derek’s had a fucker of a decade.  My dad... well, he’s always had issues.  Point is, those of us who had the worst nightmares before all this started are probably always going to be a little more vulnerable to something like this that automatically feeds on our worries and fears.”

Stiles pulls out his little bag of pre-wrapped crystals, considering, then waves Boyd and Erica over.  He starts with Erica, swiping two of them down her arm, then hands them to her.

“Okay?” Erica asks, looking bemused but also smiling a little down at them resting in her hand.

“Stiles, aren’t those—“ Allison starts, eyes widening and hand going to grip her own necklace.

“Yeah, protection crystals,” he nods to her, then to Erica.  “Those are set for your bloodline only.  They’ll only work for your parents.”

“Oh,” Erica says, eyes softening as she rubs her thumb over one.

Stiles repeats the process with Boyd, three for his sisters and one for his grandmother.  Boyd gives him a nod that feels almost like the one Alan had given him when offered a magical branch, open and sincere.

Jackson looks a little like he’s wilted in place, hands stuffed in his pockets.  Stiles huffs a sigh and waves him over anyway.

“I’m adopted, remember?” Jackson snaps, but semi-quietly and a little sad.

“Lucky you,” Stiles snarks, but not unkindly.  “Most parents just _get stuck_ with the kids they get, like it or not.  Yours actually _chose_ you,” Stiles huffs and waves Jackson (who looks strangely stunned by that thought) over again.  “Wallet or phone.  Whichever you have their photos in.  And don’t front - I know you _do._ ”

Jackson flushes the tiniest bit when he pulls his wallet out, then hands over the latest Whittemore family photo.  Stiles sets the crystals to each of their images and hands them back.  Jackson says nothing, but the gratitude is all there in his face and Stiles nods back.

“So what,” Scott snarls when Stiles moves to put the remaining crystals away, “my mom and Allison’s dad get _nothing?!_  And what about Lydia and her mom?!”

“They already have them,” Parrish says, looking as impatient with Scott as Stiles still feels, and tugging his own out of his uniform shirt.  “So do I.”

 _That_ shuts Scott down and then he’s right back to glaring at the ground like he’s mentally searching for something new to be pissed off about.  Stiles just sighs (again), then pauses and pulls out one more crystal, adds a cord and hands it to Parrish.

Parrish blinks at it, then nods and begins to tuck it into his pocket.

“Why the hell— Is that for the _Sheriff?_ ” Scott demands, glaring at Stiles again. ( _Why_ , even?)

“Yes, Scott,” Stiles snaps, chilling a little.

Scott rolls his eyes (again), like Stiles is (also again?) being unreasonable.  “He doesn’t deserve one!” He spits out.  “Why should _he_ get one?!”

For a second, no one speaks, too stunned by Scott’s words.  Isaac, somehow, despite looking furious and shaky, answers.

“Because Stiles can never forgive his dad if he’s _dead_ , you callous, insensitive _dick.”_

Stiles fights off the urge to hug Isaac senseless for actually _getting it,_ but nods to him while Allison slips her hand into Isaac’s and everyone else goes back to ignoring Scott, who’s suddenly looking almost freakishly conflicted, his aura bouncing all over the place.  Stiles vows to talk to Alan _tomorrow_ , come hell or high water.

“Why bind them to our bloodlines?” Erica asks, watching the spare crystal finally disappear into Parrish’s shirt pocket.

Stiles blows out a slow breath, zipping the duffel back up.  “Because it’s potent protection, for whoever wears it... and I don’t want to risk one of the bad guys using one to be protected while doing even more damage.”

“Dad said not to loan it out,” Allison murmurs, fingering the one still safe at her throat.

“Exactly,” Stiles nods to her, then frowns.  “Like not loaning it to that homophobic douche from the warehouse,” he adds pointedly.

Allison flushes, but raises her chin.  “He’s been sent to Maine for retraining.  He _won’t_ be coming back.”

“Danny will be glad to hear it,” Stiles mutters to himself.  “So, your families in town are as safe as they can be while we hunt down the caster before they sacrifice their way into god-like power and figure out how the hell to kill the entity before it manages to infect and possess half the county.”  Stiles heaves another exhausted sigh because for such a short list, it feels like he’s about to tunnel through a mountain with a teaspoon and a handful of cherry bombs as his only tools.  “Speaking of the entity,” Stiles eyes Derek, “Deaton said you guys are on damage control duty?”

Derek frowns a little but nods.  “Yeah, though there doesn’t seem to be much we can do unless it’s talking people into leaving town for a while.”

Stiles nods again, and climbs half into the jeeps trunk and hauls a box forward, passing it out to Boyd, who’s closest.

“Mojo juices, roughly a hundred or so,” Stiles pauses to pin Erica with a look.  “Do _not_ use them to get stoned, please.”  She pouts a little, but nods seriously after.  “Cars, purses, backpacks.  Keep a few with you, when you can.”  Stiles looks to Derek though, waiting for an objection but Derek is just nodding in agreement.  “One for yourself if you start feeling the strain, another few for those who are clearly on the brink or have the kind of responsibilities that need them to be steadier.  Caregivers, cops, firefighters, that kind of thing.  Maybe you can pass it off as an herbal energy booster.  Or an immune system booster, maybe; it does have echinacea,”  he adds, then hauls a second box forward and hands it off to Parrish.  “Pass them out at the station when needed, maybe?”  Parrish nods while Stiles hops back down to the ground.

Stiles closes up the jeep and eyes Derek again.  “Okay, so... anything else?”

Derek’s eyes swivel to Parrish with a somewhat distrustful look, which is weird until: “Why do you smell like Kali?”

Parrish blinks, eyes shifting to Stiles who just shrugs (stomach twisting as he closes the jeep back up), then back to Derek.

“The lead we got from the djinn led to a cave,” Parrish admits, looking faintly sick again.

“What was left of Kali was in the cave, bound by some seriously fucked up dark magic,” Stiles fills in, then eyes Lydia.  “And it all felt like that same ‘rotten vegetation’ flavor.”

“Shit,” Lydia sighs and everyone looks at her a little oddly.  Been a while since she’d had anything to really say when it wasn’t a crisis, maybe?  But Stiles just nods agreeably, because yeah.  _Shit_  indeed.

“Yeah.  But it’s one less alpha the caster can use to call up more power, at least.  Duke and Ennis were already gone though,” Stiles sighs, rubbing at his eyes like he can rub out the memory of everything in that place.  Maybe he can fill the cave in with cement, or something?  He could magic a cement truck up there, right?

“Her body’s still up there?” Derek asks, eyes swiveling between Parrish and Stiles.

“Yes?” Stiles answers.  “There’s no taking it out of there without a body bag and maybe some blasting caps to take out the front wall.  The cave entry was like,” Stiles holds out his hands at about a foot apart.  “And I’m not teleporting any _thing_ or any _one_  that’s been cursed like she was.  I’ve got no idea if that kind of curse-work travels with a body or person, but I’d rather not risk it, personally.”

“Stiles, you’re _positive_ she was dead?” Allison asks, looking worried. “Strong enough alphas don’t need much a heartbeat for them to technically still be living.”

“She didn’t have an aura,” Stiles says with honesty, trying not to be irked at the implication that Stiles wouldn’t have checked magically, at the very least.  (Also trying not to remember that ultimately, _he’s the reason_ she didn’t have one.) “I wouldn’t have left if she had, and that’s not something that can be faked.”  Allison nods, looking relieved.

Stiles... has no _one_ specific reason to hide the whole truth about Kali, and yet.... and _yet_ , the thought of telling them he’d _killed_ someone?  No matter how evil or necessary?  No matter that it was for _mercy?_ No, Nope, Non, Nyet. Nein. _Nuh_ - _uh._   He ain’t sayin’ nothing to _no one_ until he’s _damn_ good and ready to and that’s definitely not now, here, with the pack.  He’s not even _close_ to ready.  Maybe not in the same dimensional _realm_ as ready, even.

 _Everyone’s_ staring at Stiles now and it takes him a few seconds to realize his breath is a little on the hard and fast side and that might well be because it feels like everyone here is a full mile (or twenty) too close to him and edging closer (while standing stock still) and now, after they’d all been out here together for a full ten or fifteen or more minutes, _now_ is when his idiot brain reminds him that it’s _the pack_ , right here in touching distance and looking at him with worry and concern and pity and frustration and whatever expression Scott’s wearing that Stiles just fucking _knows_ will break him if he actually deciphers that look and—

“I’m leaving,” he chokes out breathlessly, blinks himself into the jeep, magics the doors closed and locked and goes unseen, jeep included, while teleporting the whole fucking thing all of ten car slots over where he can just rest his head on the steering wheel and just—

Breathe.  This whole fucking day has been _too_  much, so...

So?  He’s got _one_ job, he decides.  That’s it - just one.  Just.  _Breathe_.

In.  And out.   And in.  And out.

“What’s wrong with Stiles.”   _Yikes_.  Stiles knows that dulcet Derek-noise very well and hopes Parrish is as impervious to alpha werewolf anger as he (hopefully is) to fire.

“You need to back off, Mr. Hale,” Parrish insists, logic-calm and cop-authoritative and audibly badass and why can’t _Stiles_ be more like _him_ right now, huh?  It makes no sense.  Why does _Stiles_ need to be traumatized and brain-fucked and _broken_ and not Parrish?  Stiles doesn’t even care how childish it sounds because it’s just _that_ fucking _unfair._

In.  And out.  And in.  And out.

“ _Better?_  Now. What. Is. Wrong. With. Stiles.” Derek grits out, his growl on a subvocal range that Stiles can physically _feel_ , even from way over here.  Stiles grips onto that feeling and breathes in deep, _finally_.  And then again.

Parrish sighs shortly.  “It was bad up there in the cave, okay?  I’ve done two tours in Afghanistan, seen the pieces of soldiers scattered wide over a road after an IED and even _that_ was almost a walk in the park compared to what was in that cave.  I think... it just took time for it to catch up with him.

In.  Out.  In.  Thanks, Parrish.  Out.  Doesn’t make Stiles feel less like a broken scaredy-cat either way, but—

“Well he shouldn’t have been up there _at all,_ ” Scott huffs out, sounding almost _mean_ , like maybe he’s _glad_  Stiles had that experience just so Scott could prove his backwards, fucked up point.  “I keep telling you, he shouldn’t be a part of any of this _at all!_   It’s none of his _business_  anymore!”

Stiles lifts his head and breathes this way for a minute instead, so he can multi-task glaring at Scott’s dumb face and still weirdly-spiking aura while he regains his cool, or whatever.  

Scott’s face _is_ a little mean-looking and Derek’s is sort of constipated-concerned and Parrish’s jaw is tight when he turns back to his cruiser and Lydia’s got her head cocked at a weird angle, like she’s listening as only a banshee can.  Boyd and Erica and Isaac are all having one of those odd, silent eyebrow conversations with bonus thin-lip action, Jackson’s glaring at Scott like Scott had maybe just insulted his Porsche along with Stiles and Allison’s pro-level speed-texting like there’s no tomorrow (hopefully with Chris) which reminds Stiles that he’s got some people to keep apprised too.

He starts with Melissa,

SS:  _Back from Narnia.  Deputy Hottie and I are both fine.  You know he’s closer to your age than mine, right?_

Alan next, just because.

SS:  _Am alive, Kali said caster is her former emissary, Kali now dead,  zombie bear laid to rest afterward, Scott’s aura still angry and weird._

It hits the major highlights, anyway.

He doesn’t text Kira or Danny next, because if he does, he’ll likely end up hiding under one of their beds until the problems all fix themselves, which would be never, maybe, and he’d get bored, eventually.  He texts Peter instead.

SS:  _What was the name of Kali’s emissary?_

PH:  _Why do you ask?_

SS:  _Supernatural Trivial Pursuit, Beacon County Edition_

PH:  _Julia_

SS:  _Last name?_

PH:  _Quid pro quo, Clarice._

Stiles shudders a little queasily (it’s just a good day for it, really) because Hannibal might’ve actually appreciated the psychology behind the level of pure, absolute, vindictive cruelty of what was going on in that cave.

SS:  _Kali’s dead.  Main-lining Criminal Minds tells me: The effort someone took to deliberately curse-rot genitals and breasts suggests it’s someone who knew her intimately and also knew magic._

PH:  _Julia Baccari.  Are you alright?_

Stiles chokes back the sound of some emotion he’s not quite ready to deal with (and maybe never, _ever_ will be), squeezes his eyes shut, and imagines himself and Kira and Danny back at his campsite, chilling on his ley line, rolling around in the leaves, magic-stoned and giggling.

SS:  _No._

SS:  _But I will be._

Thank _all_ the technological gods for texting.  You can’t hear a lie through a text.

PH:  _You think the caster is Julia?  Rumor has it she’s dead._

SS:  _Kali knew it was her.  Probably villain monologued her, or something, but Kali no longer had a tongue to explain and now doesn’t have a pulse to explain further._

Stiles feels an odd, worried pulse in his gut that feels vaguely Peter-like a half-second before Stiles’ cell rings.  Stiles doesn’t answer until he’s checked his mental map and see that Peter, for some reason, is at the Argent’s apartment.  Again.

“Hey Peter.”   _Wow_ , he sounds small and fragile and broken and tired even to his own ears.

“I’m at the Argent’s.  Chris would like you to come over.  Do you have time?” Peter asks with a strangely gentle note in his voice.

“I have homework,” Stiles blurts, like a reflex.  It’s a stupid thing to say and a worse thing to think but it’s _true_ , nevermind that whatever teacher he turns it in to tomorrow might not even have a pulse the day after, _Stiles has homework_.  And he needs a shower.  The shower alone might actually take a day or two and he may or may not have any skin left when he’s done scouring it as hard as he thinks he’ll be wanting to.  “And I’m not exactly people-ready right now, Peter.”

Stiles has to close his eyes again, head to the steering wheel, not with horror but some fantastically idiotic form of _shame_ he shouldn’t have to feel with the day he’s had.  And it’s _so_ much worse now, because fuck it, the thought’s in his head that _it’s only Monday_.

It’s only _Monday_ and this has already been one of the _longest_ days he’s had since Derek first exiled Stiles’ weak, puny, _useless_ ass.

“Are you sure you should be alone?” Peter asks, slowly and almost carefully.  Stiles fights back the fury-laced wiseass comment that almost tumbles loose until Peter speaks again.  “The first time I ever needed to kill someone, I didn’t leave the house for days,” he says, almost at a whisper.  “And even then, I _needed_ my sister— I needed someone to ground me, to keep me from slipping under it all.”

Stiles breathes.  In.  Out.

“You don’t need to be alone with this,” Peter adds softly, then clears his throat and heaves a sigh.  “Just remember that, alright?”

In.  Out.  “...okay.”

Stiles hangs up in time to watch the trail of pack cars plus one cop cruiser swing out of the lot, leaving him behind yet again, unseen.  He’s not sure if he’s okay with it or not, this time around, because something just changed tonight.  _Stiles_ changed tonight, he _knows_ he did and he’s not sure if he’s okay with _that_ or not, either.

He texts Parrish, on the off-chance Parrish is the type with well-meaning loose lips.

SS:  _Please don’t tell anyone._

*************

Stiles doesn’t get his shower until after two a.m. and by then he needs a bathroom break as well, having polished off the entire case of Ensures and half his protein bars while teleporting around the high school grounds setting markers, then tackling all of downtown Beacon Hills, then uptown, then parks and then damn near anywhere else he could reach until he ran out of the mage mix and finally deemed it done enough to head back to camp.

He scours himself in the silent campground shower til the hot water runs out, then scours a while longer.  Then he does his homework and then makes more mage mix and then finally feels like his brain is maybe mushified enough to attempt sleep.  And that... doesn’t work out so well, he thinks, peering down at the wet, red patch, gingerly peeling the bottom of his t-shirt away from his chest.  These claw marks are much, much deeper than the last ones were.

*************


	23. A Meeting is Called

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This meeting is far overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extended wait — my mind has gone all baby-fuzzy over my newest nephew and for the life of me, I couldn’t get my head back in the angsty mindset I usually need for the terrible horrors that has become poor Stiles’ life. :/
> 
> (I’m so hooked on baby cuddles.)
> 
> The chapters will keep coming, though slower with the hell-i-days fast approaching.

 ************

Jordan rubs at his eyes and wonders if he should just take one of those restoratives now, before he gets started on this file, or if maybe he needs to call it a night and try to get some rest.  On the one hand, a restorative might jostle his brain free of that woman in the cave (and the unsettling feel of the cave itself) and set it back here in the station where it needs to be.  But the thought of choking one down is almost more than he thinks his still-queasy stomach can handle, and he’s not sure he can sleep yet with those images still so fresh in his mind either way.

He hadn’t told the Sheriff anything more about their lead other than the cave and the body itself, largely leaving Stiles out of it, and explaining the possessed grizzly bears (how on earth had those gotten this far south, anyway?) and their return to the northern woods.  Jordan’s kicking himself for even _thinking_ to listen to Stiles’ text request, except... Stiles has a better handle on all of this than anyone else, doesn’t he?  He’s essentially leading the charge in this battle against the bizarre, though he probably shouldn’t be, at least not right now.  Not after he’d insisted on giving that woman a merciful death himself.  And Jordan knows, just as many soldiers to, that even providing a merciful death (killing for any reason, really) is a hard thing to make peace with.

It might not be a bad idea to take him to one of Jordan’s veteran meetings.  Even those without diagnosed PTSD (Like Jordan) sometimes go, to remind themselves that no matter how mild the symptoms, every soldier feels the effects of the thing’s they’ve seen and done.  Sometimes it helps, reminding yourself that you’re not the only one who gets the shakes (and nightmares and depression and sometimes flashbacks) afterward.

“I know what it is,” the Sheriff murmurs after a long, silent while.  He’s staring, not at the murder board, but at his fingers, clasped together on top of a closed file.  “The connection,” he clarifies after Jordan turns to face him.  The Sheriff doesn’t look surprised, even a little, which means he’s been silently mulling on this information for a while, for some reason.  He opens his fingers to fiddle with that tiny crystal Jordan had passed to him earlier and had told him why Stiles needed him to keep it.  (The Sheriff had gotten quiet after that.)Now he looks torn on what, exactly, to say, because he just toys with that crystal with a distraught sort of look for another few minutes while Jordan just waits him out.

“It’s Stiles,” the Sheriff says at last. 

Jordan frowns.“Stiles?The connection is Stiles?”

The Sheriff nods, lips pursing a little.“We had a dog once, when Stiles was still little.Hit by a car when Stiles was only six; broke his heart.Harley was old already, but Stiles?He didn’t take it well when the doc said Harley couldn’t be saved.”  The Sheriff winces a little at whatever memory came with that statement.“And Harley’s vet was Dr. Jeanie Grafton.”

One of the first three sacrifices.  _Oh hell._

“And the pediatrician?” Jordan asks, though he hardly needs to.

“Was Stiles’ pediatrician, before he married in Hawaii, then changed his professional name.“Dr. Eli Winston used to be Dr. Eli Denver.”

“And the nun, who was a psychologist?”Jordan asks, stomach dropping a little.

“Specifically, a child psychologist, specialized in grieving children who’ve lost a parent.  He didn’t take well to her.  Pretty sure he’s part of the reason she retired, actually,” the Sheriff sighs, a half-smile quirking up for a second.  “Talked her in circles, gave her all the facts he’d picked up from the three dozen or so books he’d stealthily checked out of the local library a few weeks after the funeral.  The librarian had thought he was getting them for me.”

That... yeah, that sounds exactly like what Stiles would do when confronted with a new problem, if Melissa’s right: dismantle it until every part is laid bare and put it back together in a way that makes more sense.Likely a self-help/self-comfort method all on it’s own.“Makes sense, if you think about it,” Jordan sighs.“Smart, really.”

“Too smart for most everyone else’s own good.Like his mother,” the Sheriff sighs, twisting his wedding ring around his finger with right hand, gripping that little crystal tight with the left.

“You can’t stay on this case,” Jordan says firmly.“You have to know that.The fallout, if someone else— no, _when_ someone else finds this connection...”

The Sheriff nods once, sharply, but still frowning.“It’s more a matter of who to pass it off to, at this point.  If we were city cops, we’d hand it to the county.  As county already, we hand it to state.  But I’m not sure the wrong state investigator wouldn’t take a look at all the facts, rituals included, and just hand it off to the feds.The feds come in, see all the madness this county’s become because of the weirdness, they’ll be digging much, much too deep for this town’s well-being.Then a lot more people will get hurt.”

“And Stiles?” Jordan asks.

“He’s innocent, obviously,” the Sheriff grunts, “but that won’t mean his life won’t become a thousand times more complicated because of the fallout from the investigation itself.  And he’s got this ridiculous guilt complex, when it comes to anyone hurting for pretty much any reason in his general vicinity.  He’ll think this is his fault, unreasonable as it is; he’s already got enough on his plate.”

Jordan nods.  _Too_ much on his plate, and they both know it.Stiles doesn’t, but he’d never admit it, because if that lady— that _djinn_  today at the hospital was right, Stiles has the best chance of stopping all the crazy before it takes over completely.“This,” Jordan sighs out heavily, “is a total clusterfuck.”He states it firmly because at this point, as far as he can see, it’s just an honest fact.

The Sheriff’s jaw goes tight for a second before he bites his lips together.He gives up before he bites _through_  his lips and snorts, loudly, then chuckles a little grimly, running a heavy hand down over his face, nodding.“Yes, yes it is.”Any other laugh, grim or otherwise, dies away when his eyes land on that tiny crystal again on it’s thin cord.

“You need to put that on now,” Jordan says quietly and seriously.“Living long enough for him to forgive you?It’s a priceless gift.”

The Sheriff’s lips tremble, just once, before he presses them thin.“I don’t deserve it,” he says simply.

Jordan huffs impatiently.“That crystal isn’t a gift _for you_ , though.At all.  _You_  are giving _him_ the gift of time— time enough for him _not_ to have a lifetime of regret from one not-even-remotely-simple act of forgiveness.”

The Sheriff might scowl in Jordan’s direction, but just a little.“You are entirely too wise for someone who looks all of twenty.”

Jordan huffs again, shaking his head.“It has been mentioned,” he says after a second, his own conversation with Stiles still fresh in his mind.

“You’re even starting to sound a little like him, now,” the Sheriff sighs, looking a little pained.

Jordan huffs a third time, turning back to the little desk to switch off the lamp and straighten his small stack of files.“I,” he says, standing and pushing his chair in, “am going to take that as a compliment.  Now put the crystal on,” he says again, headed for the door.

“You do remember I’m technically still _your_ boss, right?”

“Just keeeeep tellin’ yourself that,” Jordan intones on his way out, biting back a smile.

“Jesus, now you _really_ sound like him,” the Sheriff grumbles.

“Put it on!” Jordan calls back quietly from the mostly-empty bullpen on his way out.

The sheriff puts it on.

************

“Do we need to stage an intervention?” Danny demands, frowning down at Stiles where he’s slumped exhaustedly on the long bench outside their zero hour classroom.Still _outside_ the classroom, because the teacher’s not here yet.This isn’t the first time old, Doc Baxter’s been late, but it’s ten past already and there’s no familiar VW bus rolling down the main campus road yet (easily seen from this hallway), which is weird.But intervention threat or no, Danny (because he’s still the absolute best) hands Stiles the biggest cup of java Stiles has ever seen in person.“Because those bags under your eyes...“

“I’m fine,” Stiles semi-lies, straight-faced, struggling to sit up a little more, carefully not wincing over the stinging of his chest from those claw marks that haven’t even started healing yet. (He’d forgotten to make more of that minty salve before everything got crazy again.)  Kira silently glowers at him, arms crossed over her chest and single right eyebrow creeping slowly upward, daring him to try _that_ line again.“I just had a rough night,” he says instead, taking the offered coffee and downing half in under a minute.The faint sting as it goes down tells him it’s probably too hot, and likely burning his throat, but it kinda feels like half his bodily nerve endings are on strike today and this might be just what he needs to get them all back to work.

Danny nods, looking sympathetic, but Kira just glowers more, then wordlessly plops down next to Stiles, tugging at his non-coffee-holding arm until he’s leaning most of his upper body weight against her.She doesn’t budge even an inch, though, and— yeah, yeah.She’s strong enough to hold the brunt of his weight; he gets it. 

But it’s a _different_  weight, this time.If death is lead-heavy, and witnessing revenge torture is uranium-heavy, then killing someone is like... adamantium-heavy, maybe.He honestly hadn’t considered how much this kind of weight would pull him down.Not under, no, but definitely down and he kinda gets what Peter had meant, now.But Peter’d had an alpha to steady him until he could do it for himself.Stiles?Not nearly that lucky.His only kinda-alpha is seeming a little less alpha-like every damned time he sees him now and Stiles highly suspects the maybe-evil girlfriend whammy is to blame, but how the hell can he tell Derek _that_  and have him believe him?Stiles’ stomach roils a little at yet another something that he’s so very, _very_ ill-equipped to deal with.

Stiles has no idea how to unload any of this weight, not on Danny or Kira or anyone.So he hugs his tiny bestie half-flat instead, setting his coffee aside to tug Danny down too and glomp onto him with his other arm. (It gets all three of them some odd looks, sprawled all over each other like they are.) Still, he feels better, some.A little, anyway. 

“Sorry guys,” he mutters.“Just... really rough night.”

Kira nods, nuzzling into his hair in an oddly fox-like way, like scent-marking, or something.  “What is it you told Lydia that once?‘You’ll tell us when you’re ready?’Well, you’ll tell us then, too.And we’ll be here to listen, ‘kay?” Kira murmurs, squeezing him ‘round the head a little.Stiles nods, nuzzling her shoulder and is now almost comfortable enough to slip back into slumber.He closes his eyes to doze.

“Twenty minute rule!!” Someone calls out from another bench a little later and a few half-awake students cheer.

“Thought that was just for college?” Stiles asks through a yawn, sitting up.

“Well, since none of the principals are even here yet to protest, we may as well make our own rules on this.Cafeteria?Maybe they’ve actually got something appetizing for a change,” Danny suggests.

The cafeteria does not, in fact, have anything appetizing, they soon find out.  It does, however, have Dr. Baxter’s body, dangling from the atrium stairwell that leads down to the kitchen and lunch tables, just outside the easy sight of the few cafeteria staff back in the kitchen, prepping breakfast boxes.Stiles feels weirdly immune to the surprised screams that echo around the wide space, seeing that darkly bloating face and the way the rope— 

A part of Stiles just wants to sigh in somewhat-defeated, impatient resignation, which leaves him feeling a bit sociopathic all over again.Can sociopaths even feel impatient?Dr. Baxter probably would’ve known.

Stiles just turns away, heads back up the stairs with a rattled pair of friends following along behind him, and calls 911 on the way.

************

School has been canceled for the day.

Stiles is not unhappy about this, since he’s running on fumes that not even two mojo juices have helped with (and his coffee is already wearing off), but he can’t help but feel a little like he’s failed old Doc Baxter somehow by not... well, by not _something_.Maybe by not solving the man’s sleep issues, or whatever, before he’d gotten desperate enough for suicide?And why the hell here at the school?Is this just where he’d had the least amount of nightmares, by default of not sleeping here?

So, logical place to start fixing: sleep issues.  Cherie had said to stop a mini-nightmare cloud, soothe or comfort the infant, otherwise, it’ll roll straight into a cycle of fear and feeding and power.(Is soothing even an option anymore?)If the djinn part of it is all but gone (and is it really?), then all that’s left is the nightmare.

“How do you comfort a nightmare?” He asks aloud.He’s sitting between Danny and Kira on the bleachers in the gymnasium with the rest of the class and waiting for the police to take all their statements.Since Parrish doesn’t seem to be here, it’s taking a while which is giving Stiles entirely too much time to think, which is probably not the best timing in Stiles’ present, near-double-vision state of mind.

“Huh?” Danny asks, finally looking up from his text-ersation with Ethan.“Comfort a nightmare?” He repeats.

“We could... give it hot chocolate?” Kira suggests gamely, half-smiling with confusion.

“Part of the entity, according to Cherie, feels like and is behaving like an infant resut djinn,” Stiles murmurs, brain still spinning out possibilities.They need to cut off it’s nightmare/ sleep food-source.Somehow.Except that everyone needs sleep and everyone fears something, so...

“Like a what djinn?” Danny asks, pausing in the middle of tapping out another line to Ethan to stare at Stiles.“And who’s Cherie?”

“Cherie, that djinn from the hospital yesterday... and resut djinn, more commonly known as dream djinn.Or nightmare djinn.Cuz, for defense, they use nightmares.And if the resut infants and very small children get scared or hurt or threatened, they’ve got that weird cloud defense, right?Cherie said they send nightmares in the form of small black clouds that hold within it all the things people fear,” Stiles says, staring blankly out into space.Well, blank to most, but Stiles is seeing all the markers on his map (and feeling weirdly satisfied by every one) and already wondering how many he can manage today with his new bag of mage mix.If he does the pack territories last (because they’ve got packs to keep a watch on them already) he can probably tackle the rest of Beacon Trails today if he pushes himself just a little harder.

“Wait, what?!” Kira practically yips in his ear, bringing him blinking back to reality.“We’re just now hearing about this?”

Stiles blinks at her, then at Danny, who’s wearing a similar grumpy-confused expression, then cringe-shrugs a little.“So.... that happened yesterday?”

He explains the hospital bit of his Monday afternoon as best he can, pausing only long enough to give a statement to a very cranky deputy who looks just shy of keeling over with exhaustion.Stiles offers the guy his last off-brand ‘Herbal 4-hour Energy’, since Stiles himself won’t need it for school today. (He also doubts another would help him right now anyway.)The officer looks a little wary, but willing (and maybe a little desperate), since it’s the sheriff’s kid offering and is almost (but not quite) smiling by the time he’s done with the statements and chasing the class all off to their cars.

Stiles feels a lot like he’s been kicked in every sensitive organ he’s got when they take the closest route back to their cars, though, right past Baxter’s room.

“Jeez,” one of the deputies say, pausing in the doorway next to Dr. Barker, who’d just unlocked and opened the door.“Poor guy really lost his mind, didn’t he?”His eyes are flitting everywhere around the room while Barker himself just looks sort of deeply concerned, shaking his head in surprised confusion.

Stiles slows as they approach, his own eyes tracking through the open door and it doesn’t take more than a glance for the bottom of his stomach to drop fast and hard before he ducks his head, very deliberately keeps his shoulders loose and tired (there’s no need to freak Kira or Danny out yet, really, is there?) and inhales deeply (tries to, anyway) as soon as they step outside.

“So, I think today might be a good day to gather the troop leaders and get everyone on the same page again,” Stiles shakily yawns out as he shuffles toward his jeep.

“Sounds good, man,” Danny agrees, handing his own car keys to Lydia, who’s just appeared somehow, out of nowhere, then accepting Stiles’ jeep keys from Kira, who’d apparently just stolen them from Stiles’ hand without him even noticing.“But we’re going to Kira’s first.Then we’ll make some calls, okay?Okay,” Danny answers himself, and _damn_ but Stiles must be tired because he hardly notices how or when they’ve essentially shuttled him into his own back seat, been handed a stack of his own clean towels to use as a pillow, and is drifting off to sleep almost before they’ve even left the parking lot. 

But even this bit of rest is restless, when his bruised mind pretty much rolls him straight into some fucked up dream where Baxter’s body, skin wriggling a squiggling under the surface, like whatever’s within is now fighting it’s way out while the man’s head lifts, oily-slick black eyes tracking Stiles’s syrup-slow echoing footsteps down the hall while Stiles’ steps slow even further, like a frame-by-frame video edit to just outside the classroom and again sees all those magazine pictures taped to the wall, patterned just so, over and over and over and covering the walls from ceiling to floor, each one flapping a little in the breeze, like they’re all waving hello and Baxter smiles where he’s hanging off the door, oily-slick oozing out the edge of his mouth when it opens.‘ _This is on you_ ’ the man/entity grins at him, mouth stretching wide, then wider as his teeth sharpen to needle points, gleaming wet in the flickering overhead lights.‘ _This is your goddamn fault_ ,’ he hisses as his body begins to splotch and bloat and blacken and Stiles looks away, (not fast enough to un-hear the wet squelching noise of those wriggling bits spatter down to the tiled floor) and sees those patterns on the walls over the shoulder of his father where he’s standing, inexplicably, in the classroom doorway and turning toward Stiles with wide, worried eyes, but the pictures, all those pictures are there and cryptic and to Stiles, unmistakable.A game console.An ocean.A sheep.

A Wii.The sea.A ewe.

_We see you._

************

In Danny’s car just behind the jeep, Lydia’s _re-_ re-speed-dialing Peter, hoping she doesn’t need to drive over and wake a cranky werewolf in person.Especially since there’s no guarantee he’s actually asleep on Chris’s sofa and not awake in Chris’ bed.It doesn’t take a genius to have seen that one coming, nevermind the horrified look on Jackson’s face when she’d just smirked knowingly at Jackson’s mention of Chris’ odd scent whenever Peter’s around now.Nor does she think it would take one to know that Allison won’t be overly pleased about it, either, with her mother’s death still hanging like a shroud over Allison’s mind half the time.

“ _Yes_ , Lydia?” Peter demands, somewhat shortly, (though not sleepy-sounding at all, even at just past seven in the morning) when he finally answers.

“He’s not doing nearly as well as he’d like to believe, or would like _us_ to believe,” Lydia says in leu of a greeting.“He didn’t seems to notice the spots of dried blood on his shirt, from somewhere, and I saw no less than thirty new markers on my way to the school and I could feel quite a few more than that.He’s going to kill himself at this pace.”Peter sighs, heavily, down the line in response.“Also, he thinks it’s time for a meeting of all the major players and Kira, Danny and I agree.When are you available today?”

“Don’t you have school today?” Peter queries, with soft, shuffling sounds in the background.

“Their zero hour teacher was found hanging dead in the atrium this morning.School is closed today for investigation,” she sighs, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.“And I didn’t feel _this_ death either.Something is very wrong and I’m not certain what, but it’s going to get much, _much_ more dangerous if we don’t all get it together soon.”

“I’m available all day, of course.Just let me know,” Peter says seriously, though a little quieter now.

Lydia smirks, just a little.“I will,” she assures.“And you’ll tell Chris too?When he’s finally... up?” She asks sweetly.“ _From bed,_ that is.”She smirks a little more and hangs up on the vaguely choked-out sound of Peter’s surprise.Lydia thinks that Stiles, at least, would’ve appreciated that line.

***********

Kira’s been watching Stiles since he closed his eyes and while his neutralizing amulet may keep her from hearing his heart racing, it doesn’t stop her seeing his eyes twitching r.e.m. rapid under his lids, only seconds after his breathing evened out into sleep.

“He okay?” Danny asks quietly, unable to see Stiles at all from his angle.

“No?Not really, no.And it got worse between the gym and the jeep, I think.”

Danny clenches his teeth.“I thought I’d imagined that.”

“I’d _hoped_ I’d imagined that,” Kira mutters back, eyes flitting to Danny and back to Stiles.“Something’s changed and it’s... I don’t even know what, but he’s _hurting_.”

“You mean the blood on his shirt?” Danny sighs.“I don’t even think he noticed it.”

Kira hums uncertainly.She thinks he maybe flinched when he reached for the coffee Danny’d whimsically brought when she and Danny had met at the gas station on their way in.“I think he’s been scratched again,” she says after a second.“It’s scaring me a little that he’s trying to keep it from us; that’s he trying to keep _anything_ from _us._ ”

Danny sighs, nodding and shifting in his seat.“Yeah, he’s gonna pop if he holds all this in for too much longer.”Whatever ‘this’ is, exactly.  And for Stiles?  Danny thinks ‘popping’ might get a bit... messy.  And possibly lethal.

Behind them, Stiles shudders in his restless sleep, fingers digging into the towel under his head and Kira bites her lip.“I think... maybe he needs the pack.Or Derek, at least.”

Danny gives her a sharp, unhappy look.“ _Why?_ ” He demands.“He’s one of the jackasses that helped, like, lay the foundation Stiles is sinking into, more or less.”

Kira shrugs, wincing, because Danny’s probably right, but... “Because Stiles can deny it day in and out, but Derek’s still the closest thing Stiles has to an alpha and right now Stiles isn’t grounded.He isn’t anchored.”

“And he really needs one?One that isn’t just... us?” Danny sighs, though he thinks he already knows Kira’s right.Doesn’t mean he has to like it.Or like Derek.

Kira shrugs.“I don’t even know anymore, really.Grams might, but maybe Mr. Deaton?We should call him too, I think.”

Behind them, Stiles whimpers a little, shivering again.Somehow, he looks even more tired now than he did half an hour ago.Kira bites her lip, goes unseen and hijacks Stiles’ cell phone while Danny sputters a little beside her until she’s back again, waving Stiles’ cell.

“I’m calling Derek,” she declares, phone already unlocked and finger scrolling through his contact list.Danny darts a look back at Stiles and nods, pressing the gas peddle down a little harder.

“May want to tell him to hurry.”

************

Stiles wakes up feeling very odd.He’s warm on the outside, which surprises him a little because he feels ice cold at his core, and knows Kira and Danny are both smooshed close behind him, (dozing or sleeping, by their breathing patterns) but it’s the heavy, soothing heat and odd heartbeat pressed to Stiles’ front that has him forcibly prying an eye open.  _Huh._

There’s a wolf in California again.And this one’s (even in fur) giving him as nervous a look now as he was last night, like he’s really not sure he should be here.Stiles sighs at him, because he doesn’t know either.Does Satomi mind having a giant wolf in her zen garden of awesome? (And how did Stiles get hauled out of the jeep without him even knowing it happened?)

Stiles closes his eye again to ponder those issues for a minute... or five (or more), maybe, because it feels like his besties have been replaced by a Cora, at some point, and it’s a little weird to be snuggled by someone who’s middle name he doesn’t even know.  _‘Madaline’_ is whispered somewhere in the back of his mind and that voice sounds very Talia-like, but he’s hardly got time to worry over it, really, because time’s kind of skipping around a bit and now it’s Peter pressed to Stiles’ back — not snuggling, but still pressed tight against him, arm a little jerky in a way that Stiles surmises is the micro-movements of cell-phone usage.

Stiles pries his eye open again.Derek’s still there and still furry but his own eyes are half-closed and nose twitching faintly and ears swiveling just a little, like he’s zeroing in on far-off conversations or maybe tracking a pair of squirrels, somewhere, by sound alone.The ears lay a little flat when he notices Stiles watching him and he’s back to looking nervous again, eyes shifting to Stiles and away and back again, though he doesn’t move so much as a muscle otherwise.Stiles frowns and wonders if it’s worth it to call Danny over to help explain this odd behavior or not.Stiles shrugs a tiny, still-exhausted shrug and closes his eye.Whatever, Derek’ll figure his own shit out in his own time, probably.

Stiles actually feels human again when he wakes for good, but he’s also uncomfortably warm now because he’s practically dripping Hales and besties, with a bonus pink and green-haired teenager, tapping away on her phone down where she’s resting her head on Stiles’ left foot.Derek’s asleep now, Stiles sees and by the sun, it looks to be mid-afternoon.Stiles can’t feel his phone in his pocket (and sandwiched between the wolf in front of him and tiny-Kira/Danny combo behind him, he’s not certain he could reach it anyway).He wriggles his foot and wriggles his wrist (as best he can) with an inquiring look when Lora tips her head back to give him an upside-down grin, then stretches up to show her cell time as just past three pm.

Wow.Guess he needed the rest after all? He gives Lori a thumbs up then threads his fingers into Derek’s fur to give him a little shake (also, surprisingly soft fur, for a wolf, he would think; and also, when the hell else will he get to _touch_ a wolf, probably ever again?) and Derek’s eyes spring open aaaand yup.Derek’s nervous again.Stiles gives him a confused look but sort of prods at Derek’s side to get him to maybe budge over an inch.Derek, surprisingly (to Stiles, anyway), doesn’t move, though he maybe looks more nervous, ears flattening a little.Stiles frowns and nudges a little harder.Derek’s ears just go flatter and he actually whines.

Peter pops up over Derek’s shoulder, hair mussed and looking drowsy when he half-smiles at Stiles.

“Well, you’re looking better,” he declares, nodding once.“Also?The last time he got up, your heart stopped beating,” he informs him brightly (Stiles can see Peter’s _truly_ freaked out look juuuust under it, though.)“I think you’re stuck with him for a while.”

Well, _shit_.

“Why?” Stiles rasps and feels the whole cuddle-puddle pile of people rouse all at once, Cora giving Stiles’ arm a squeeze from where she’d been gripping it over and behind the Kira/Danny combo who shifts into alertness behind Stiles.

“Don’t know yet,” comes Danny’s vaguely-muffled voice from behind Stiles’ head.“But I swear you _neeeeed_ to quit doing that.We freaked out a little.And then we freaked out a lot.”

Stiles wilts (internally, at least, because externally he can still barely move) and sighs.“Sorry, I’ve seriously got no clue why this time.”

“Kira wants to know how you’re feeling,” Danny says, his voice still sounding muffled. 

Stiles frowns and manages to roll just enough to free his entire left arm from under Derek, then hisses (pins and needles!), but grips a thick handful of fur before Derek can protest beyond a canine-like whining-groan.Then Stiles barks out a laugh.Kira looks _very_ grumpy, for a fox.Which is both hilarious and adorable.

“She says watch what you say if you want to keep your nose,” Danny mumbles from behind Kira’s small fuzzy back.It explains why Danny and Kira had felt like Danny/Kira, at least.

Stiles taps his chest in invitation and Kira hops up (Stiles is careful not to wince), Danny snorting at her (and maybe snorting out a little Kira-fur, too, now that he finally has space to breathe).“You look very regal,” Stiles tells her, mostly honest. And for a pitch black fox, she actually does, even if (because of course) she’s _tiny_ , for a fox, no larger than the average cat.But her wide, pointy ears are _enormous_ and the longer fur of her head is sticking up in five different directions and half her whiskers are a little bent, for some reason.Stiles tips his head over to Danny before he gives in to the inadvisable urge to snicker at Kira and all of her very sharp little teeth.“Sorry I worried you guys,” he tells him, then taps his fingers over his chest and Danny’s hand joins with his, Kira laying her whole head on top of theirs, giving Stiles a look.

“She says there’s a few life skills you clearly haven’t mastered yet, but we’ll get you there,” Danny sighs, giving Stiles’ hand a squeeze.“You okay?You look better, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t feel mostly dead anymore,” Stiles tells them honestly, then eyes Kira.“So... not that I’m complaining, but why are you an actual fox?I thought you were opposed to indulging your furrier half since you can’t turn book pages easily this way?”

“Because apparently her pack energy is a little stronger when she’s full fox,” Danny answers, eyes ticking to Kira and back to Stiles after a second.“And she figured you needed all the help you could get.Also, she wants you ‘minted’.”

“I’m one of a kind,” Stiles grumps at her with a frown.“I refuse to be minted.”

Kira’s (slowly straightening) whiskers twitch a little when she fox-frowns up at Stiles.“She says she’s been smelling the wound on your chest reopening and bleeding and stopping and starting over and over again.I have that salve I made in my bag and it worked great for Derek’s scratches earlier,” Danny informs him.“And I’m in full agreement.You need minting.I just didn’t want to molest your chest while you were so out of it.”

Stiles stills, (now) wincing a little.He was really hoping that’d go away on it’s own before it became outside knowledge.He sighs, nodding.Beside him, Derek’s giving Stiles a look.

“Don’t even, dude,” Stiles grumbles at him, shaking his fistful of flank-fur a little.“It’s not like you advertise it when you get banged up.”Derek’s eyes narrow a little, one ear cocking a little off-center, like lifting an eyebrow.“Yes,” Stiles answers that look, “I’m aware you’re a werewolf, but now I’m a mage, so you’re gonna have to find a new argument.”Derek rolls his eyes and settles his head back down, looking surprised and grumpy and pleased all at once, somehow.

“Have you recently taken up a course in speaking canis lupis, lycanthropis?” Peter asks from just past Derek, his own eyebrow lifted and lips twitching.

Stiles stares at him.Was it not obvious what Derek was ‘not’ saying?Huh.Stiles shrugs.“No, but since ninety percent of everything he’s ever had to say to me that isn’t ‘shut up’ or ‘go away’ is spoken in overall body language, I had to learn to decipher that a while ago.The only thing he’s lacking now is super-talkative eyebrows.”

From beyond Danny, Cora snorts agreement (not that she’s one to talk herself), then snickers along with Lori, who’s still down at Stiles’ feet.Peter says nothing, but looks like he reeeeally wants to laugh.Derek just sighs and rolls his eyes at them all. (He still looks weirdly pleased.)

“Okay,” Stiles sighs, giving Kira a quick nudge to the side, “I woke up because I’m melting over here; I need air.”Derek doesn’t budge, but everyone else does, mostly, and Stiles manages to sit up, at least, to blink around at the garden with Kira perched on his raised knees.He feels pretty damn good, actually, considering his recent, apparent heartbeat-less-ness.Except his chest, obviously, which Kira reminds him of by just grabbing ahold of his t-shirt and tugging with a pointed look.“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, looking over to Danny.“You said you’ve got salve?”

Derek still refuses to leave Stiles’ side, but Peter, Cora and Lori clear out of the garden so Stiles can mint up with a modicum of privacy and Stiles might not hiss with pain when the bandage comes off, but both Danny and Kira (reclothed and furless) both do.Derek whines, ears stiff and eyes wide and worried and weirdly surprised.

“Wow, that looks _way_ worse than it did this morning,” Stiles mutters, peering down.Now it looks almost (but not quite) infected, the ragged edges of all four tears bright red.Danny’s salve, which is clearly (holy shit, _wow_ ) waaay better than Stiles’ works like a charm, though, healing it almost as soon as it goes on.“Niiiice,” he tells Danny approvingly.Danny’s busy staring at Derek, though.

“He says those are almost identical to the ones he got in his sleep last night,” Danny says, which kills Stiles’ cheerier mood in a snap.

“Seriously?” Stiles demands, frowning at Derek’s wolfy frown.“Identical?”Derek nods.“Well.... shit.Don’t suppose it came with some some seriously fucked up dreams, did it?”Derek nods again with another whine, head cocking to the side.“Has... it happened to you before?” Stiles asks next, because he’s got suspicions.Derek nods yet again, eyes widening and head tilting further.“Not sure why, no,” Stiles murmurs, leaning back into Derek when Derek leans into his shoulder.

“...Maybe because it killed you both and you both survived it?” Kira asks after a minute. 

Stiles blinks at her.“Maybe?Probably.Either that or our nightmares just make super-edible long-term meals.”Stiles sighs, almost in unison with Derek.Derek follows up with a grumble.“Yeah, we could probably use some therapy, or something.”

Danny huffs at them, but Kira’s got her thinking face on.“Well, now you know a djinn who sort of specializes in that, at least.Maybe she does phone consults.”

“‘Is she trustworthy, though?’” Danny asks, eyes on Derek.Danny frowns at him.“I’d think if anyone would know, it’d be Stiles, man.He’s got a good head for that, you’ve got to know _that_ much, at least.”Derek wolf-scowls at Danny.Stiles flicks Derek in his fuzzy ear and earns a scowl of his own.

“Don’t even.My instincts, magically magnified these days, are probably better than even your wolfy ones.Cherie’s good people, actually.And her daughter sounds adorable.”Derek rolls his eyes (again), but he relaxes, like he’s willing to take Stiles’ word for it and that all by itself is a pleasant change.“Okay, next on the docket?Food.I’m seriously starving.”Derek’s ears perk up, then swivel out to the forest, side-eyeing Stiles.“No, Derek, I’m not hungry for rabbit or whatever the hell you hear out there.”

Kira snickers at them and Danny’s giving them both a quietly shrewd look that Stiles tries not to read into.

Then Danny sighs shortly at Derek, face going a little tight.“I’m pretty sure Satomi won’t be comfortable bringing your girlfriend here, Derek... No, I don’t need to ask, because I’m actually _that_ sure.If you want to argue it, lose the fur and ask her yourself.”

“Can you guys give us a quick minute?” Stiles blurts, while he still has the guts to and Kira nods without pause, hauling Danny away with her to go stash some of the salve in Stiles’ duffel.Derek looks oddly nervous again and Stiles breathes out a nervous breath of his own, tugging his amulets all forward and turning to face Derek.He plucks his neutral amulet off and holds it up.“I can’t lie for shit when I’m not wearing this.”Derek’s eyes follow it curiously when it lands in the grass beside Stiles.Stiles chews on his lip for a second, then takes off his crystal too.Derek’s eyes widen a little.“And I’m certain enough of what I have to say and trust you enough to take me seriously, enough not to maim me, at least, to lose this for a minute too.”He drops it beside the amulet.Well, Derek looks downright disconcerted, now.

“Straight up?Your girlfriend’s putting a whammy on you.”Derek’s eyes go insta-red, lip curling up a bit and growling almost silently.“Kira and Danny and I were all at the ice cream parlor the other day, Derek.And I can see auras.So can they.And what we saw was you, practically engulfed in a cloud of ‘wrong’ that was coming from her.Enough so that, even now, I’m guessing you never even knew we were in there, ordering loudly over the music?”Derek’s not growling now, but he is glowering, like he thinks Stiles had been spying (in a totally public place?) on him. 

“And you didn’t even notice that napkin freakishly caught fire until almost a full minute _after_ the fact and we _both_ know that’s _not_ normal, Derek.What it is, to me at least, is somewhere between slightly unsettling to _really_ fucking alarming.”The red has faded from Derek’s eyes and he’s only looking somewhere between disbelieving and possibly alarmed himself now.

“Beyond that, you’ve been acting less and less alpha-like since you’ve started dating her and it’s not just me that’s noticed it, I don’t think.I’m telling you for the pack’s sake, as much as yours.I don’t think any of you are safe around her.”Derek’s silent look is currently unreadable, so Stiles just sighs.“You deserve to be happy, Derek?But not with someone who has to whammy you, or be-spell you, or whatever, to make it happen, okay?And that’s pretty much all I’ve got,” he says, shrugging.“Just... keep it in mind.I don’t want you hurt.Any of you,” he adds, scooping up his crystal and amulet and walking back to the house, leaving Derek to his wolffish thoughts, alone.

But Stiles’ shoulders, or heart, or something feels just a little bit lighter now; a little lighter still when Peter mouths ‘thank you’ with intense sincerity as Stiles walks by, Cora nodding heartily behind Peter, looking grim.Stiles is just glad he’s not the lone sorta-pack voice on this.Derek’s girlfriend, whoever she really is, needs to go.

************

Stiles knows, by reminiscent memory of the kitchen at the loft, that werewolves keep a lot of food on hand, so it’s not a surprise to see Satomi’s counters covered in edibles.But it honestly looks like she’s opened her very own Subway shop, complete with giant French rolls coming out of the oven to join those already stacked in a pyramid on top the stove.Stiles’ mouth actually waters because he’s seriously never been so hungry before. 

Physically, Stiles literally shouldn’t have the space to fit in more than a foot and a half of fully-loaded sub, but somehow, he manages.Kira manages a whole footlong one on her own, which is weird as hell to watch, but it’s Cora who manages an improbable two and a half subs vanishing into her skinny waist that has everyone at the table looking impressed.Even Derek doesn’t manage that much, and he’s still a giant-ass wolf, for some reason, once again pressed tight to Stiles’ side at the table. Satomi chats with him on Derek’s other side, having almost no problem at all understanding all of Derek’s odd little ear, nose and eye twitches, though Danny does help clarify a few of the more complex points, translating easily like he’s been doing it all his life and like chit-chatting with animal-shaped people is as normal as talking lacrosse with Brett across the table.Kira and Cora are both catching up on their missed years, reminiscing old times (which has Cora’s shoulders tightening here and there) but Peter’s leaning into her arm and occasionally adding his own two cents or snark to ease whatever tension builds while he fiddles with his cell phone.  (Cora still won’t say much about her time away, though.)

Stiles mostly just watches it all (waving to Kira’s parents when they wander through to make their own sandwiches, though they eat privately out in the garden for a rare moment to themselves) while helping Lori with the algebra she’s finishing up in her lap as she munches her way through a foot plus of sub herself. (Seriously, the laws of physics just _bend_ when it comes to shifters and food.)

Mr. Yukimura opts to stay at the house with Brett and Lori while everyone else troops down to the tea shop for the meeting, Noshiko, for some reason, giving wide berth to wolf-Derek (and therefor Stiles) where he’s still pressed against Stiles’ knee.Stiles doesn’t think he needs Derek’s continued heart-non-stopping support anymore (Stiles had been fine walking back to the house alone, after all), but Stiles won’t argue because he still feels a little shaky from this morning and is mentally stuck on the issue of what to say about alive-Kali knowing the caster’s identity when dead-Kali couldn’t tell anyone anything.

Peter’s continued (and very pointed) side-eye looks seem to lean toward Stiles saying _something_ , somehow, but Stiles just flinch-winces a little every time he imagines an awkward attempt at doing so and Derek keeps giving Stiles unreadable looks every time Stiles does, like he’s trying to ask Stiles what’s wrong and just can’t yet without a human mouth to work with.Stiles opts to ignore Peter, for now, because... Well, because.

Peter drops the suggestive side-eyeing (more or less) by the time they all step into the fragrant scent of tea and herbs and old books to find a handful of people already there.  Chris and Parrish are helping beta-Mark (and his crazy mullet), Allison, and Jackson (why’s _he_  here, of all people?) haul chairs into the back room, with Lydia (likely why Jackson’s here) perched quietly on the counter, toying with her phone.

Stiles takes a long second to stop and stare when Peter veers straight towards Chris, because while their body language isn’t anything more than friendly, Stiles suddenly knows (in an almost visual way that he _reallllly_ hadn’t _ever_ needed to semi-vision-see) that there’s more than friendship there now.Stiles must’ve stood there a little too long though (with a likely gobsmacked expression), because Jackson’s face is sort of hilarious when he breezes past, with a muttered ‘I know, right?’ when he grabs a final chair to carry to the back room.Lydia nods a greeting to Stiles, Kira and Danny, giving wolf-Derek an interested, raised-eyebrow look before she returns to her phone, nodding a little to herself.Alan slips in through the door last and Mark himself slips out, giving Satomi a parting nod, and the meeting is ready to begin.

With the extra people, it’s a tight fit in the back, and it’s Peter, this time, who gets stuck with the wobbly tea chair and Derek, (if Stiles is reading his lolling tongue, perky ears, and attentive eyes right) is laughing a little every time Peter shift-wobbles awkwardly in place.But it’s actually _Satomi’s_ careful not-smile that makes her look like the guilty party, especially with Kira grinning approval at her Grams for the first five minutes after everyone sits down.   (There’s clearly a streak of mischief in the Ito pack that may well actually stem from the very top.)

After the few new introductions, Parrish begins by telling everyone (or re-telling) the upsetting story of chainsaws and inky worms of yesterday and Stiles continues the tale to explain Cherie at the hospital and what she and her harem had felt when they’d been here in the early summer and how little of the damage of then they’d actually been responsible for.

“So none of those deaths had been from the djinn?” Chris asks, predictable frown in place.

“How many had their been, all told?” Stiles asks.“I was pretty out of the loop; the only ones I’d heard about were the office park, early on, and presumably the bank, later on,” Stiles adds, an odd almost-memory of slipping into a metal cave, wide yellow eyes...

“Seven, over the summer,” Chris says.“And the wendigos after that, which you were there for.There’s been some random bodies since, but pretty remote-location ones that’ve only caught the radar late because those people were mostly live-alones.”

“Wendigos?” Danny asks, looking curious (and unsettled, because Stiles knows he watches Supernatural, too.)

“Yeah, that second time I’d seen the full-cloud version of the entity,” Stiles shrugs.“It didn’t get Parrish or I that night, thanks to Lydia and Chris; I think the wendigos were the backup meal.”Kira nods, giving Danny a ‘I’ll fill you in later’ sort of look.

“The hospital, though,” Allison frowns at Stiles.“You helped us look into that one?  That’s one of the seven, over the summer.”

“Uh, the hospice patient?That... was an assisted suicide, actually,” Stiles says with a half-shrug and a minor wince, “not the entity.”

“Wait, so the djinn _did_ kill her?” Allison asks, looking disturbed.“And you just, what... let her _leave?_ ”

Stiles stares at her for a second.“As opposed to what?Making her daughter an orphan?”

Allison flinches a little, but steels herself.“Well, if she killed someone—“

“When did she tell you that?” Parrish interrupts, giving Stiles an unhappy look, like he already knows.“Is _that_ why you asked for the maps?”

“I asked for the maps because we _needed_ the maps,” Stiles sighs.“But yeah, I also asked about the other lady then because I didn’t think she’d answer once you came back.The woman was in hospice for pancreatic cancer.She was dying slowly, in agony,” Stiles stresses, hoping Parrish, at least, can understand this part, “and was psychic on top of that.She knew Cherie was a peaceful djinn who could offer her a painless death and knew Cherie wasn’t getting as much psychic life-force food as she needed.It was a give and take for both of them.Just... very, _very_ badly covered up.”

“Just because it was suicide, doesn’t make it right,” Allison argues, pale and angry.“You shouldn’t have let her leave, or at least called _us._ ”

“It was a _merciful_ death,” Stiles stresses, a little surprised by Allison’s reaction.Except, Allison’s mom was also a suicide, so—

“She’s not here anymore either way,” Chris cuts in.“And she’s not planning on coming back, right?”Chris looks mostly like he’s trying to diffuse the tension but that statement doesn’t seem to be helping Allison, who’s gaping at Chris like she can’t believe he’s not automatically taking her side.

It’s definitely not helping Stiles, that’s for damn sure, because aren’t mercy deaths allowed?  Can’t they be the exception to the rule?

“I’ve already told her she and her daughter can come back once the entity’s gone,” Stiles says firm and clear, (somewhat) shaking off whatever feeling is twisting inside him, because Cherie, at least, is as kind and decent as they come.

Everyone stares at him, except Parrish, who’s now (finally) looking more sympathetic.Peter looks a little torn between wanting to support his (maybe boy)friend and understanding why this death, a hospice patient’s death, seemingly inconsequential, is so important to Stiles.

“And I’ve offered her my protection while she’s here,” Stiles stresses.“She’s not evil and I won’t see her hurt just because she made an admittedly bad call.”

“She _killed_ someone, Stiles,” Allison stresses, looking impatient and maybe sorry for him, like it’s _him_  who’s not really getting it.

“For _mercy,_ Allison.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says flatly.

Stiles— well, Stiles is more than disappointed by her opinion, but half the people in here seem to agree with her, maybe even Derek, if the way he’s gone uncomfortable and tense beside Stiles means anything.

“Mercy should always matter,” he says softly.

No one has much to say to that, and Allison just stares hard at the floor and refuses to look at him again.

“Perhaps we should set that aside, for now,” Alan suggests carefully, looking at Stiles with more than a little worry.  Stiles stares at the floor and nods tightly before he continues.

“The clues Cherie gave us pointed us to a specific area in the woods, near the western side of the Hale territory border, though just outside it a ways.Parrish and I went up there yesterday afternoon and found a cave that was practically coated in dark magic.”

Parrish, (thankfully) rather than Stiles, fills everyone in with what they’d found there, though he leaves out the part where Kali had still been alive in her little prison ring.  Even the description Parrish gives of all the claws and fangs and the bits of rotting flesh in the other circles was more than enough to have everyone looking a little queasy.Stiles is suddenly regretting every bite he’d eaten earlier until the whole story (finally) moves on to the bears.

“ _Zombie bears?!_ ” Danny exclaims beside Kira.They’re both giving Stiles a semi-betrayed look, like maybe he should’ve filled him in this morning even before the whole djinn hospital story.  (He’d completely forgotten the bears til the meeting started, somehow.)

“Only one?” Stiles sighs at them with an apologetic look.“The other two were alive.”

“Grizzly bears,” Parrish nods.“I might call someone and have them relocated back north, actually,” he adds.

“Those were grizzlies?” Stiles demands, weakly.Parrish nods.Oooookay.Well, that explains their size, anyway.

“Huh.... Okay, anyway.Um... then this morning.”Danny and Kira both sit a little straighter and shoot looks to each other before Stiles heaves in a breath and tells everyone about Dr. Baxter hanging in the atrium, which was awful by itself, but... then adds the part about the magazines pictures he’d seen on their way past the classroom.

“Magazine pictures?” Peter asks curiously.“Stress from lack of sleep could account for that, though,” he adds, eyes shifting to Allison sympathetically.Allison shrinks down in her chair a little, but doesn’t comment.

Stiles swallows, then nods jerkily.“Specifically, pictures of a Wii console, an ocean, or a sea... and a sheep.Like a female ewe.”  Nearly everyone frowns at him, then around at each other.

“Oh shit,” Danny breathes out after a few seconds, looking disturbed.Everyone shoots him a look.“Wii sea ewe.  We see you.That’s what my mother said to you when she was possessed with that entity-worm-thing.”

“And that’s what that guy behind the diner said,” Stiles mutters.“Or probably.He didn’t have any lips, so...” Stiles shrugs, eyes clenching shut, shuddering a little at the memory.Derek presses firm against his leg and Stiles just... breathes.It’s still his one job.Breathe.

“Sounds like it’s taunting you,” Chris murmurs.

“Sounds like it’s trying to psych you out, to me,” Jackson says unexpectedly. (And Stiles may need to get his memory overhauled because he had honestly forgotten Jackson was even here, quiet as he’s been.)“And maybe throw you off your game, like mocking the batter stepping up to the plate.”Jackson spears Stiles with a look, eyebrow lifted.“And they only do that when they know how good a batter that player really is.”

Stiles blinks at him and sees a few people nod agreement.“Maybe.”

“What’s the alternative theory, though?” Jackson asks, like Stiles is an idiot for not automatically taking Jackson’s (admittedly very plausible) theory as fact.

“That it’s targeting people I know or have known, maybe?” Stiles shrugs uneasily.

“You’ve met my mother before?” Danny asks, hiking up an eyebrow.

“Well, no—“ Stiles admits.

“And you’d met the bears?” Kira asks, lips twitching a little. 

Stiles huffs at her.“No, obviously, but that guy at the diner had been there before, and Dr. Baxter—“

“Stiles,” Peter cuts in, giving him an exasperated look.“It’s feeding off them, we know that now, yes?If it’s going to feed on anyone, it makes sense that it’s going to go after more familiar people, or those known to people who know you, as Jackson said, to ‘psych you out’.”Peter leans forward, eyes narrowing on Stiles.“That doesn’t mean you’re responsible for what’s happened to those people, though.”

Stiles glares at him a little.“You don’t know that, though.”Half the people in the room shift in their seats, looking surprised and Kira crosses her arms, giving him a grumpy look, like she wishes her legs were longer so she could kick Stiles’ ridiculous shin without having to leave her seat.Lydia gives him a similar look, actually, and Derek just stretches up his whole neck so Stiles can’t _miss_ his wolfy eye-roll.Stiles flicks him in the ear again, just because, before addressing Peter.“No, really, though.You can’t deny that it’s happened more to people who’ve known me—“

“ _Because_ it’s trying to psych you out,” Jackson insists, giving Stiles one of his rare, serious looks.“And if you’re thinking you’re responsible, even a little bit?   _It’s working_.And you have to know you’ve made a good shot before you’ve even thrown the ball, or you don’t make the shot.  Then it’s game over before you’ve even started.”

“Sports metaphors?” Kira asks, smirking at Jackson, but Danny just nudges her in the side.

“No, he’s right,” Danny says, nodding to Jackson, looking impressed at Jackson’s insight, then back at Stiles.“It’s twice as hard to make a good shot if you doubt yourself.And to continue with that theme, you’re not the only player on the pitch.Maybe it went after my mom because I’m a guardian- _whatever_ and can actually help stop the damned thing.How effective or helpful would I be if I were grieving?”

“And who knows what kinds of clues I might’ve picked up,” Parrish adds with a thoughtful look, “if I hadn’t been tailing the Sheriff, when he was still a target.We might be five steps ahead of where we are now, otherwise.”

“And,” Kira adds, “you yourself said Derek was the gatekeeper to the rest of the pack.Maybe he was targeted less for whatever nightmare fuel he provided and more so for the fact that either he, or the pack itself could be useful to stopping this thing?If the entity is smart enough to target anyone at all, maybe it’s also got more specific reasoning for who’s it’s gone after first.”

Stiles... hadn’t actually considered that overmuch, but nods, chewing on his lip a little, thinking.“The bears are a little weird, though.”It’s been niggling at Stiles’ brain, the bears.What was the point of them, really?

“Maybe they were protecting the cave?” Parrish suggests.

“Yeah, but why not protect it before we went in?They only showed after we were out and on our way back to the cars,” Stiles points out.

Alan, maybe because he’s a vet (or a super-insightful Druid), sits forward looking interested.“Was there something more there for you to see that you didn’t, perhaps?”

God, Stiles really hopes not.If he _never_ goes back in that cave, it’ll be too soon.He shrugs an answer.

“I could go back, take a look?” Parrish says, nodding. 

Stiles’ blood runs cold.“Not without me, you don’t,” he says, head shaking and jaw setting.

“I could go with him,” Chris adds, maybe (probably) noticing Stiles’ suddenly sweat-shiny brow.“I don’t think anyone should go back up there alone, either way.”

“Not... to sound all power-conceited?  But I don’t want _anyone_ that close to that much bad juju without me there for damage control,” Stiles chokes out, gripping Derek’s furry shoulder.Derek just leans into his hip a little harder, looking concerned.“It’s a magic-heavy area in general and I, uh...” Stiles swallows hard, rapid-shakes his head again.“Yeah, no one should be there without magical backup, just in case.Please?” He begs lightly, eyes zipping from Parrish to Chris and back.

“The area itself is magic-heavy?” Alan cuts in, looking a little intense.“How so?”

“Uh... well, it shows up on my magic county map that way?Like on a ley line, maybe?Like where my rowan tree was, before it got cursed and eaten.”Stiles shrugs, but relaxes by a fraction when neither Parrish or Chris looks like they’re about to bolt cave-ward.

Now Alan looks sad for Stiles.Still disturbed, but also sad.“Cursed and eaten how, exactly?”

Stiles sighs, shoulders drooping and looks to Danny and Kira.

“A little more than a week ago,” Kira explains.“We noticed through Stiles’ ley line that something about the tree was ‘off’.When we got out there, the tree, like, the _whole_ tree was nothing but a pile of rotting compost, almost.Stiles said there was ‘rotten vegetation’ magic?And looking at it’s energy, it was covered with that same black oily crud that the entity-worm that possessed Danny’s mom was made of.The caster and the entity seem to have maybe done it together?” Lydia sits up a little straighter at that, but doesn’t comment. 

Alan leans forward, looking serious again and almost everyone else just looks confused.“Where exactly is this magic spot?Where is the cave?”

Stiles frowns at him, but conjures his giant map out of the jeep and now everyone sits up attentively while Stiles glances around for the flattest wall or shelving space, which is just behind him.Once he sticks in in place and unrolls it, there’s the predictable amount of ‘oohs’ and ‘aaahs’ while they watch the tiny dots tracing over it.Alan looks both pleased and dumbfounded.

“Lemme guess,” Stiles says, smirking a tiny bit, “This shouldn’t be possible?”

Alan smiles a little back at him while he shakes his head as he stands, then frowns toward the map.“Where are those magic-heavy places you mentioned?”

Stiles points out his own tree-less splotch of dusty red, then up to where the cave was.Alan’s jaw goes tight and Noshiko, surprisingly, sucks in a sharp breath from the back of the group.

“That’s a nemeton,” Alan murmurs almost silently and now _Peter_ sits up straight, eyes narrowing at the map.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Alan pulls the map down, rolls it up and hands it back to a surprised Stiles, shaking his head a fraction.Stiles frowns, but dutifully (and confusedly) sends it back to the jeep.

“I think... I think I know what another part of the entity is, now,” Noshiko says from behind everyone who’d gathered in close to inspect the map.Now everyone turns to see she’s gone a little white and a _lot_ guilty-looking.Still, she sets her chin and meets Stiles’ gaze.“I think I may have caused some of this, inadvertently.”

“Mom?” Kira asks with confusion that everyone now shares.

“Many years ago, I buried an evil beneath a great and powerful tree, near to where you’d pointed.I never saw a cave, but...”

“You buried _what_ under the tree?” Alan demands, eyes wide.

“A nogitsune.”

************


End file.
